Without You
by Skalidra
Summary: Barry has a good thing going. He's married to a woman he loves as much as life itself, Iris, and maintaining a no-strings-attached relationship with Hal on the side, as stress relief. Until Barry wakes up in a world shockingly different from the one he knows. No Crime Syndicate, no powers, and none of the people he calls allies have even met him before. - Earth-3 connected universe
1. Chapter 1

**This is part of a larger continuity of stories. Please consult my profile for the master reading list if you want to read them in order.**

Welcome! So, this is another piece of my Earth-3 Storyline. It's basically Flashpoint as told in an Earth-3 perspective (fair warning I'm basing most of this off of the animated movie Flashpoint, as opposed to the comics, because that's what I know). I've got three chapters of it done, but there's more past that. Hope you enjoy!

 **Warnings** this chapter for: Explicit sex, and cheating with an established secondary partner.

* * *

The blood is what really makes it for me. His costume's already red, where it's not streaked across with the dirt of our run through my city, but the rips through it and the darker red where he's bled onto it aren't nearly as rare as he'd like. Or as _many_ as I would.

I can feel his pull on the speed force, and I reach for it as well and slip sideways to dodge the heel aimed at my calf, yellow lightning following my movement and red his. Then he's off again, running, and I draw more heavily on the humming force in my veins and chase after him. I draw up to his side more easily than I thought I would, ducking in low over a wide sweep of his arm and ramming my shoulder into his side. It knocks him sideways, where his hip clips a parked car we're passing and he spins and slams to the ground on his stomach.

I skid to a stop to reverse direction, and he's starting to get to his feet but not fast enough to stop me grabbing the back of his shoulder and dragging him up against the metal of the car. He glares at me, lashing out a punch towards my face that I jerk out of the way of.

"What's wrong, Reverse?" I say with a laugh and a grin. "You're off your game today."

"It's not a _game_ ," he spits back, knocking my grip loose and snapping a kick at my chest to force me to back off. I do, but only long enough to jerk to the side and then go back at him.

"What, you don't like to play?" His teeth grit as he ducks away from my punch, which hits the glass of the window behind him — hard enough to break it, but we're still so far in the speed force it only just starts to shatter — and shoves off the car to tackle me to the street. I can feel the friction against my back, but I roll with it and get my legs between us to kick out and send him flying along with his momentum.

He smacks into the other side of the street, landing at the curb, and turns to meet me as I get to my feet. "How can you not see the kind of damage you're causing, Quick?!" he shouts. "Innocent people are getting hurt!"

Reverse is always so _serious_ , no matter what direction our fights take. Always so horrified over any civilian that gets in the way, or any cop I take out, or any passing blow I might deal to a hero as we run by them. He spat his backstory at me the first time he ever showed up — I admit, he got the better of me that day; I wasn't used to fighting other speedsters — and it, honestly, makes me pretty damn proud.

He's from the future, with the ever so helpfully unique name of 'Eobard Thawne,' and apparently I'm such a famous villain in the future that when he got his own connection to the speed force — that part, he won't tell me — he came back in time to stop me from doing the worst of it. It seems like a flawed plan to me, but time travel isn't my forte and I don't really know the rules. I avoid it as much as I can; it's got a nasty habit of making the speed force try and eat you alive, and I'm not so interested in ending my own career like that. No matter how much fun it might be to mess with time.

"Again with the speeches!" I push off the concrete, he does the same, and we're running again. "What makes you think I _care_ , Reverse? I think we've done this dance before, and you never _win_." I speed up for a second, pulling on the speed force and pushing harder, _faster_.

I start to gain and then Reverse turns on me, arm swinging low as he skids to a dead stop. I don't have the time or the warning to get around it, and the best I can do is slow myself down by shoving my feet against the asphalt, but it's not _nearly_ enough. His arm slams into my chest — more accurately, I slam into his arm — and my momentum flips me halfway into the air before crashing me onto my back on the asphalt, trying to breathe through the painfully accurate blow to my solar plexus and everything around it. I'm pretty sure he broke some of my ribs, but on the plus side, I'm pretty sure it broke his arm in return.

He'll heal, so will I, but I'll take broken ribs over a broken arm any day.

"You're right," he says from above me, as I pry my eyes open and gasp for some kind of air. "This is never going to end."

There's the distinctive whoosh of displaced air and the sizzle of lightning, and I feel the speed force tell me someone else is using it, and I watch the aftershocks of red lightning as he takes off down the street. It's only a few seconds before I catch my breath and drag myself up to my feet, but he's long gone. A few seconds is more than enough time for one of us, and he could be miles away by now, or a block and in hiding. Pretty much impossible to find unless he wants to be, I've been down that road. I've wasted time trying to hunt down Thawne before, and there's really no point. It's not like he's going to do anything that I might actually care about without me there; he's pretty much fixated on me.

You'd think that he would have killed me when he's had the chance, if he's really concerned with whatever I do in the future, but then heroes don't _kill_ now do they? They're never going to beat us as long as they aren't willing to put us down. I mean, really, what prison could _ever_ hold me?

I roll my shoulders back, ignoring the pull of whatever's broken in my chest as it heals together again, and the ache of having my breath knocked out of me. It won't take long to be gone, an hour at the absolute most since it's not any larger broken bone, or some kind of impalement. Running might sting for a bit, but it's not that big of a deal, and pain's not that big a deal. I feel it, of course, but it won't be there long. I can just weather it until it's gone, or crash for a nap and be just fine when I wake up. Although, after this fight with Thawne — we must have been running around for at least fifteen minutes, in _normal_ measurements — I could use a good amount of food. _Lots_ of food.

I flash a grimace, glancing around at the street and then almost laughing at the frozen citizens. Not from my use of the speed force, but their own fear. It's not such a bad consolation prize for Reverse getting away, again, and it relights the part of me that — even though I just got the wind knocked out of me — is having a _good_ day.

I drop out a mocking salute, reach into the speed force, and run.

* * *

"Iris, you home?"

She should be; it's her day off and she didn't tell me about any plans to hang out with any of her friends, or chase a story off-record. Usually she lounges at home on days off, and takes the opportunity to catch up on any shows she might have missed, or personal business she hasn't had time for. That, or corner me to ask me about stories and check facts of my fights with other people.

My Iris, the reporter.

"Here!" she calls, and I resist the urge to reach for the speed force and run through our house to find her. Doing that while I'm in civilian clothes tends to set them on fire, which is not so fun.

I head for her voice, tracking it to the living room. She's lying back along the couch, her head up on one arm and her feet almost touching the other, and she's in her comfort clothes. _Very_ comfortable pajamas that she wears whenever she's convinced that she's not going to be doing anything that requires her to leave our house, or have anyone else over. They're just plain, dark blue, but they're about the softest things we own. Sometimes I almost get jealous that I don't have a pair myself, not that I'd ever get the chance to use them.

There's no such thing as a day off for me, not really. If heroes are working I'm at least on call, if not actively out there trying to kill them. Sure, I could throw on pajamas, lounge around, and _pretend_ that a day was going to be all relaxation and laziness, but the chances that it would actually happen? Not high. Besides, technically, I'm supposed to supervise the operations that happen in my city, in case of heroes that _aren't_ as totally fixated on me as Reverse is, and will actually go after just the business. If I slack off too much, the rest of the Crime Syndicate will have my head. Owlman, especially.

The bastard.

I push the thoughts away and circle the couch, sliding my leg onto it and between hers. "Hey," I say softly, with a small grin. She pauses whatever it is that's playing on the TV — I _really_ don't care enough to look and figure it out — and gives me her attention, setting aside the remote as I brace my hands on either side of her head on the couch's arm, carefully avoiding the spread of her brown hair.

"Well hello there, Barry." Her smile is as soft as my voice, and she reaches up and twines her hands through my much shorter hair.

I all but melt into her when she starts scratching, sinking down and fitting myself into her curves, my head down next to her neck. "Unfair," I murmur, and she gives a chuckle.

"Says the Syndicate member. All's fair in love and war, sweetheart." I make some kind of protesting noise, but my mouth curves in a smile I can't control and I press my mouth in against the side of her neck. She's warm, and soft, and everything that it's amazing to come home to, and _god_ I love her.

I'd tear apart worlds for her, if she asked. Not that she would, and that's one of the best parts. I don't have to worry about her trying to take advantage of my speed for _anything_ more important than a late-night run to a store right before it closes. Well, that and the tricks I can do with it in a bed, but those I would use even if she never asked me to just because it's _fun_ , and it makes me happy to please her. The only thing that could stop me is if she didn't like me using my powers when it's just us, and if that was even _remotely_ the case I wouldn't love her half as much as I do.

I _am_ Quick, literally and figuratively, and I refuse to separate that piece of who I am out to make the people I'm with comfortable. I'm an all or nothing kinda guy, most of the time. If they can't deal with everything I am, they shouldn't be with me to begin with. Especially not if they're going to be scared or uncomfortable with who I am and what I can do if I want to.

I stir and lean into her, making a soft noise that's got just a little more intent in it. I _would_ like a bit of fun. I've got some kind of debrief meeting later, with the whole Crime Syndicate, but that's not for _hours_ , and hours can be a long, long time. Especially with me.

She gives another chuckle at my noise, but her hands don't stop. "How was your day?" she asks, with a hint of teasing.

"Good," I manage. Her hands pause long enough for me to finish up the train of thought, and let me say, "Had a fight with Reverse."

"You're alright?" is the immediate question, her left hand leaving my hair to stroke down the back of my neck and over my shoulders. Checking for anything that doesn't feel right, like she always does.

"Nothing that hasn't already healed," I reassure her, and then press my mouth a little more deliberately against the side of her neck. I lean into her, pressing small kisses down the line of her throat, only _barely_ grazing my teeth—

"Barry _Allen!_ " I jump a little bit, jerking my head up to stare at her. _There's_ a tone I don't hear much. Her eyes are narrowed, warning. "If you give me another hickey that I'm going to have to cover up tomorrow, there will be _pain_. You understand me, mister?"

 _Oh_ , alright, yeah. No actual threat or anger, okay. Had me worried for a second there. "I'd never ignore a threat from the amazing Iris West," I tease in turn, with a smile. "I'll behave, promise."

She arches an eyebrow and spreads her hand out against my scalp. "Yeah? Can I get that in writing?"

I lean down, kissing her, and she makes the softest pleased noise. It's just _perfect_. Her left leg rises up against my hip, the hand on my back curling enough that I can feel her manicured nails through the thin fabric of my collared white shirt. I keep my feet off the couch — she _will_ snap at me for putting my shoes up here — and my weight at least mostly supported on my knee and braced arms, but she tugs my head down and keeps it there, my mouth pressed to hers.

Finally she pulls back to breathe, and I push up into her hand and smile down at her. "Say the word and I'll have it in your hand. Written proof that the great villain Quick promised not to leave anything visible, _just_ for you. Though I'm definitely not keeping my hands to myself."

"I'd be disappointed if you did," she counters. " 'Great villain,' huh? You _are_ in a good mood."

"Well my business is running by itself, my heroes are quiet, and I get to come home to my beautiful," I press my lips to the side of her neck, "smart," and lower, "talented," just at the edge of her top, " _amazing_ wife on her day off."

She gives a bright laugh, hand flexing in my hair as she tilts her head back. " _Flatterer_ ," she accuses, and I pull back just enough to meet her gaze with a crooked grin.

"Well, they're just facts."

"Come here," she demands, rolling her eyes and tugging me down into another kiss. I go totally willingly, her hands smoothing out across my back and curling in my hair. It's warm and soft, amazing, and I brace more of my weight on my right arm so I can lower my left and find the edge of her top. She makes a small noise into my mouth when I slide my fingers beneath the fabric and stroke up her side, enjoying the touch of skin as soft as hers, with no scars disrupting the surface.

It's an eternally new feeling to me, somehow. She's so _different_ from everyone else.

 _From Hal_ , a traitorous part of my mind whispers, and I shut it away. Hal has _no_ place in my time with Iris, not even just the thought of him. She's my wife, and even if I'm not being totally honest or faithful to her all the time, I can be faithful while she's _in my arms_. Anything else isn't just terrible of me, it's unfair to her.

Besides, Hal is passionate, and good at what he does, and he can _take_ everything I can dish out, but he's not anything more than casual. Neither of us wants more than that, and I would _never_ allow it even if we did. I _love_ Iris; I don't have to think about that.

She's wearing one of her utility bras — I know the feeling of it, bare of any of the lace or patterned stitching of the rest — and I let my fingers slide beneath the straps for a second before pulling back to cup the side. She makes another noise, and I mentally curse that I didn't have the sense to take my shoes off before I started this. I should know better, I _really_ should. How many times before have I done this, and then gotten stuck right here? Not willing to step back and get rid of clothing while I'm touching her, but not able to go much farther until I do.

Things are so much _easier_ when I'm in my suit and I can just vibrate straight out of it and be done.

She takes pity on me, fortunately, and lets go so she can move both hands to the front of my chest and push me back. "You are released," she declares, imperiously but with a smile. "Shoes and socks, and relocating to the bed. I am not risking stains on the couch."

The grin splits my face, and I climb back up and off of her. "Yes, Ma'am." I affect a very serious expression, kneeling at the side of the couch and flinging out my arms. "May I have the honor of carrying you, Ma'am?" I can't hold the seriousness for more than a second, especially not once she starts laughing, and I crack a grin and then join in her laughter.

Her hands cup my face as she leans in, her mouth still curved in a wide smile even as she kisses me. I resist reaching for her any more than the single hand I raise to comb through her hair, back along her scalp and pulling the brown strands away from her face as gently as I can. It's not like she's fragile, but she's fragile compared to _me_ , and it's really easy for me to hurt people. I _never_ want to hurt her, even accidentally.

Iris pulls back a bit, fingers stroking along my jaw as she lets go. "Yes, oh 'great villain,' you may have the honor." She sounds a step away from another laugh, and the rising warmth in my chest promises that I'm not far from another one either. Her blue eyes are still one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, and I impulsively lean forward to brush my lips over hers just one more time.

Then I shift forward, sliding my arms beneath her shoulders and her legs, and lift her weight as I stand. She's not that heavy, and I've got plenty of strength, so spinning on my heel to carry her off to the bedroom is a very easy thing to do. Getting the mostly-closed door open is a little harder, but I manage it by balancing on one leg and nudging it open with the toe of my other shoe. It's just one moment of awkwardness in what's otherwise a smooth operation, including laying her down on the side of the bed, and that's a small price to pay.

Besides, we have both done _much_ more awkward things in the course of our marriage, and made total fools of ourselves on more than one occasion. This is nothing.

I have to push away the urge to reach for the speed force; I will _not_ set any of my clothes on fire by accident, even if that would get them off faster. It's not guaranteed to happen, but sometimes I happen to move in just the wrong way, with the wrong friction, and then there's fire. Iris doesn't appreciate it.

Instead I kneel, tugging one shoe off and then the other, and follow it up with peeling off both socks. Those I know better than to leave lying on the floor like my shoes, and I fling them towards the hamper in the corner. I admit to giving a mental cheer when they actually land in it, and not on the floor beside or behind the plastic bin. From there it's a test of how fast I can move up onto the bed, and with Iris, without actually using any of my speed.

It feels slow to me, considering what I've got waiting for me up there, but I'm sure it's pretty quick to a normal person. My sense of speed is pretty twisted, like my usual sense of time.

Her hands immediately fall to the buttons of my shirt as I slide between her legs, undoing enough that she can push it halfway off my shoulders. Her hands stroke up what skin is bared, along both sides of my collarbone and up to the back of my neck, and I lean into her touch. It's second nature to repay her by dragging both my hands underneath the hem of her pajama top, pushing it up her waist to bare her stomach and ribs. I sharply resist the urge to lighten my touch and tickle her, mostly because I know it will get me banned from touching her again for at least a half an hour.

That's a _long_ time for me, and she knows it.

She pulls me down on top of her, lips meeting mine as her legs rise and squeeze in on either side of my thighs. Both her hands lower to the rest of the buttons, undoing them one by one, and—

The abrasive, shrill ring of my phone shrieks into the room, and we both freeze for a second. Until it gives a second shriek, and I bite back a curse and straighten up. It's the Syndicate ringtone, which means I _have_ to answer it or risk pissing my nearly-allies off. Tempting as that can be, _especially_ right now when I was _so close_ , it's not worth it.

I irritably wrench my phone out of the pocket of my slacks, flick it on, answer the call, and raise it to my ear. "This better be _really_ important," I snap, raising my gaze to the ceiling so I'm not glaring down at Iris.

 _"Catch you at a bad time, Quick?"_ Owlman, of _course_. With just enough dry sarcasm to be irritating without letting me really call him on it. _"We have a team of heroes launching simultaneous strikes across the country; get to Star City and back up Green Lantern."_

He hangs up without another word, and I have to swallow down another curse and just drop the phone back into my pocket. It's a _civilian_ phone, he shouldn't even be calling me on it. I rub both my hands over my face, and then aim a small, regretful grin down at Iris. Who I want to stay with, and make love with, and just enjoy the sight and touch and _feel_ of, damn all the Crime Syndicate business.

"Go on," she says, only looking a touch disappointed and not actually angry. "You've got work to do."

I lean down and give her a quick kiss. "Don't know how late I'll be—" I start, and she shakes her head.

"I'm meeting friends at the paper later, in a couple of hours. We should be out pretty late, and I'll be tired when I get back. Take as long as you have to."

"I might stay at the Tower, depending on the fight," I warn her, as I get to my feet and shed my shirt all the way. I wait for her acknowledgement, a nod and a smile, before continuing my change. I activate the ring on my finger — designed to look like one of the cheap ones they sell at Central City souvenir shops, with Reverse's color scheme of my symbol on it — to push out the compressed folds of my suit, and slip into the speed force to get into it.

I shed the rest of my clothes first, then grab the expanding suit from the air and yank it on. It's anything but graceful, even with the practice I've had, but it's fast and that's the important part. I drag the zipper up, reach back and tug the cowl over my head, and take one stretch to make sure everything's in the right place. It is. Then I let myself fall back out of the speed force, tossing my clothes to the hamper and turning to Iris.

I lean down over her, brushing my glove across her cheek and pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "Love you," I murmur, with a crooked grin. I'm gone before she can answer, snagging my goggles and the Syndicate earbuds from the stash near the back door and putting them both on as I run.

Almost immediately I can hear Hal's voice in my ears, snarling something about heroes and their aim, and I let a grin curl my mouth and speed up a bit.

Star City's not that far.

* * *

"You are such a _fool_ ," Super Woman sneers, hands braced on the table.

"You got me _shot_ ," Ultraman growls back, looking _beyond_ pissed off.

I shift my arms behind my head, both my feet propped up on the table, and settle in to watch the escalating argument. I can be gone before either of them gets around to actually doing any damage, and this is _way_ too entertaining to let go. Hal — sitting across from me — looks a little wary, and there's a glow to his ring that says he's ready to spin a construct at the slightest notice, but he's not backing off either. Not yet.

Sea King looks unimpressed, as always, Grid is a silent figure at the control console behind the snarling pair of the alien and amazon, and J'onn is still but impossible to read. I guess he can just phase out of existence and sink through the floor if things turns nasty. The way more unusual thing is that Owlman is silent.

He's watching the two of them, one hand on the table and body mostly facing them, but he's not interfering. Usually the bastard noses in when any of us look like we're going to get physical about things; reminds us all that we might not like each other, but we're still publicly a team. I can't remember or count how many times he's cooled down a fight among us with just a few words, or a command. Ultraman might be the big badass, but even he backs off when the Owl gets involved.

Which he's not doing. I guess even Owlman isn't immune to a bit of petty manipulation, and is willing to let the two of them fight. After all, everyone knows the Owl is screwing Super Woman behind Ultra's back. Even Ultraman knows, but whatever our strategist _bastard_ of a shadow-leader has on the alien it's enough to keep him from wiping Owlman off the face of the Earth. Or maybe he's just not dumb enough to try challenging the nastiest guy on our 'team,' even if the guy is just a human in a suit.

"It is not _my_ job to watch your back! Perhaps if you didn't charge into every battle, _expecting_ everything to bounce off your skin, you wouldn't _get_ shot!"

Owlman's mouth flickers in a tiny smirk — sometimes they're gone again so fast I'm really convinced I'm the only one who catches his tiny reactions — but he stays absolutely still apart from that. I glance over at Hal, but he's too focused on the two of them to spare me any attention. I don't like not being the center of his focus, but I don't blame him. Since he can't move as fast as me, I guess he'd need to keep his attention on the two of them to have any chance of dodging stray blasts of lasers or shockwave from the super-strength both of them.

"Not your _job?!_ How would you react if I got _you_ shot?!"

Oh, dangerous territory there. Super Woman's eyes narrow, hands digging into the table hard enough the metal screeches. The rest of us automatically lean back a bit — Hal and Owlman pull their arms away from the table, and I drop my feet back to the floor — in case she decides to rip it out of the floor and swing it at her publicly obvious lover. Privately, they're nearly always at each other's throats, but nobody sees that but us.

"I would not _get_ shot, and if I did I wouldn't blame my own lack of attention on someone else!"

Ultraman puffs up in offense, scowling, and his eyes glow red for a second before returning to blue. "You are such an unbelievable—"

"Be careful how you finish that sentence, _male!_ "

Hal looks decidedly uncomfortable now, and his ring is nearly bright enough to have actually made a construct. From what I remember he hasn't got the greatest track record against Ultraman, though he was definitely beating Super Woman in the fight I can remember happening a few years back. Before, of course, Owlman interrupted. Both times. Still, trapped in a room with an angry amazon and Kryptonian looking to tear each other's throats out isn't great if you can't dodge at superspeed.

Well, this is kind of a waste of my time anyway. I suppose I can rescue Hal just for the benefits. It's been too long, Iris won't be up for anything, and I'd like the end of the day to be as good as the rest of it was. Hal's always a good time.

I push away from the table and get to my feet, and _immediately_ both Ultraman and Super Woman's heads snap towards me. I give them both a sharp grin. "Your problems aren't mine," I point out, "and I've got better things I could be doing." To make it a real, _blatant_ , invitation I turn towards Hal and raise one shoulder in a shrug. "Fight was boring, spar?" Paraphrasing, and total lies — well, the fight wasn't any kind of challenge, but it was also long and tiring — but it'll do.

I don't delude myself into thinking the expression on Hal's face is gratitude, but he does pretty much instantly take my offer of a way out. "Sure," he agrees, standing from the table and heading towards the opposite end of the table from our furious teammates, towards the exit.

"Yeah, better things to _do_ ," Ultraman snarls, emphasizing so there's _no_ mistaking what he means.

I can see Hal's shoulders stiffen, and then he starts to turn around. I flash a sharp grin and face our Kryptonian, making my tone as mocking as I possibly can. "Absolutely. _You_ should try it sometime, might help with the rage issues you got there." A pointed look at Super Woman, and then I finish the jab up with, "But maybe not tonight, hm?"

His eyes snap to red, I grab for the speed force, and his lasers slice through where I was standing and burn two neat scorch marks onto the cement floor. I'm nice enough to make sure my dodge doesn't make me end up next to Hal, even though that's my first instinct. He probably wouldn't appreciate me putting him in the line of fire, especially not if that fire is Ultraman's lasers. The big idiot will never hit _me_ with them, but the best Hal can do is throw up a construct and try to hold it. Plus, Super Woman doesn't look that pleased with me either, and she's harder to deal with than Ultra-idiot over there.

" _Enough_ ," Owlman snaps, finally intervening. "Quick, Lantern, go."

I give a mocking salute to the bastard and turn my back, heading for the exit. I don't trust Ultraman not to shoot me in the back, but Owlman wouldn't let him. Ultraman is a moron, but he's not _that_ dumb. It takes a special kind of stupid to fuck with any of the Owls, and he's just a regular kind of stupid. Big, strong, and willing to try and solve anything with strength and then some more strength. He's lucky he's pretty much invulnerable too, or he'd be _really_ dead by now. And we're all lucky he's not smarter, or _we'd_ be the dead ones.

Hal never actually turned all the way around for whatever aggressive, defensive thing he was going to snap at Ultraman, and after a second's pause he resumes his trek towards the door and falls into step beside me. He's tense, shoulders raised defensively, but his ring isn't glowing and his expression isn't any more pissed off than usual. Hal's pretty prickly, most of the time, and he gets even worse about it when other people start implying things about the two of us. Personally, I think he needs to suck it up and get over the idea that some people are going to think — not totally inaccurately — that I'm fucking him and not the other way around. What does it really matter who enjoys what?

Though I _do_ like being reminded, from those comments, that this isn't a one way street. It's a damn good thing that Hal isn't one of those guys that's so set in their ways and bullheaded that they won't ever switch the roles up, because _damn_ is he gorgeous underneath me. Louder than I ever thought he'd be too.

When the door slides closed behind us, Hal turns his head and glares at me. "I can defend myself just _fine_ , Quick." He doesn't stop moving, but he's not taking a swing at me or stopping for the confrontation, so he's not _really_ angry. More like irritated, probably.

"Defending _you?_ " I counter as I keep pace with him, grinning as I meet his look. "I was taking a shot at Ultraman, you're just good ammunition." I take a quick glance around to see if any of the lower Syndicate members are hanging around — they've got their own base, but sometimes they end up here — before taking my next step diagonally to get closer to him. Not _quite_ close enough to touch, but enough to make him feel crowded. "You're welcome for getting you out of there, by the way."

"What are you expecting, a thank you?" He snorts and shakes his head, but the glare fades into his normal, neutral expression as he turns his head forward and away from me. He's still a bit irritated looking, but if you know him it's just the equivalent of a blank slate. "Not gonna happen, Quick."

I roll my eyes. "If you don't want to thank me, don't. You're not the center of my universe, Lantern, and I _so_ don't need your approval or your gratitude." I'm so far from dependent, and Hal's just casual anyway. Needling his pride is fun, but I really don't care if he actually appreciates me getting him out of uncomfortable moments or not. I like him where I can actually play around, not stuck in a meeting with the rest of the Syndicate. If I was going to 'need' anyone's approval it would be Iris, but I _don't_.

Hal shifts to walk closer to me, leaning in to say, barely above a breath and _right_ into my ear, "Just other parts of me, huh?"

It's so unexpected — Hal _never_ makes comments like that outside of whatever locked room we end up in — that I freeze up for a second in surprise, and promptly trip over my own feet. He laughs at me as I fumble to catch myself, having to use a bit of the speed force to make sure I don't end up on my face, and doesn't slow down to wait for me to get my feet back under me. So when I finally — by my standards — get my balance back, I reach back into the speed force and use it to cross the distance he's put between us and get back that spot right next to him.

"I wouldn't say ' _need_ ,' " I hedge, but I also make sure that my shoulder brushes briefly against his. He doesn't move away, and I count that as a victory. " 'Like' is really more accurate. You're good, Lantern; you're not _that_ good."

Hal's mouth curves in a small grin, and I almost pull back when he leans back in towards me — I'm not real interested in tripping over my own feet again, though I _am_ more prepared this time — but decide not to. There's the barrier of my suit between his mouth and my ear, and he doesn't _quite_ touch me but his voice is low and purposefully rough and it doesn't even _matter_ that my suit is in the way.

" _Liar_."

I swallow, and before he can pull away again I turn my head and catch his mouth. He startles, jerks away almost immediately with a scowl, and I let him. The brush of lips is enough, and if he gets to play in somewhere semi-public and _not_ safely behind the door of a private room, so do I. He should have considered that before he started this.

" _Prove_ it," I challenge, with a wide grin, "and don't start things you don't want me to finish, Lantern."

He scowls for another second, and then shakes his head. "Do you think everyone knows about us?" It doesn't sound like he really likes the idea.

"Yes," I answer bluntly. He grimaces, and I snort and nudge my shoulder into his. "Come on, Lantern. The only dumb one in that room has super-hearing, and not every wall in this place is soundproofed. They're a bunch of assholes, not idiots, and it's close quarters. Doesn't matter how subtle we are, and we're not _that_ subtle."

"God, we're not as obvious as Owlman and Super Woman, are we?" he asks, sounding absolutely _disgusted_ with the idea. I can't help laughing, the sound bursting from my chest and tilting my head back for a second.

When I calm it back down I flash him a wide grin, a wink that he probably can't see behind my goggles, and counter, "Haven't gotten caught yet, right? We both know the Owl is just shoving it in Ultraman's face anyway."

"True."

Hal's quiet for a few seconds, enough that I look over to see why. He looks like he's considering something, and I'm not too much a fan of the interruption of what was _definitely_ headed towards something fun. I push my shoulder into his again — and for some reason he's not reacting to that, even though it usually pisses him off to be crowded — and ask, "What's up?"

"Just thinking," he answers, and it sounds _completely_ automatic. Then he draws to a stop, and I do the same as I glance around, recognizing the crossing corridors we're in. Rooms are to the right, training areas straight ahead, and the left leads out to the hangar and storage areas.

We _should_ be heading off to our claimed room, unless I totally misread everything — not likely — or he got sidetracked thinking about something he needs to do. Instead he's looking towards the training areas, and he's still got that expression that makes me think, somehow, there's something I said or did that dragged his thoughts off in some other direction than the really great sex we were going to have.

"So—"

He turns on me, and I jerk backwards a little bit in surprise, but it doesn't feel like a _threat_ , so I don't wind up twenty feet away and with the speed force humming in my veins. His hands drag along my cowl, thumbs brushing my cheeks, as he pulls me forward and leans in, and I'm really not _expecting_ the press of his mouth to mine but it's not such a bad surprise. His teeth graze against my lower lip, his tongue forces its way into the seam of my mouth, and he steps forward and drops his right hand down to the small of my back so he can pull me up against him.

I take in a sharp breath that tastes and smells and _feels_ of him, automatically reciprocating by reaching forward and gripping his upper arm, stroking my other hand up the center of his chest. He nearly _growls_ into my mouth, pushing his right leg between mine.

I break away long enough to get out, "You _do_ remember we're in the middle of a corridor?"

"To hell with it," he snarls in answer, dragging me in again. "You're the one with a wife; do _you_ care, Quick?"

For a second I think of Iris, and Owlman's knowing smirks, and Ultraman's glares, and then Hal's lips are pressing into mine and I throw it all out the window. _No_ , I don't care. Everyone already knows, and Iris isn't here. Even if she were, she's not everything I need. I love her, but she can't hurt and push and _fight_ me the way Hal can. She doesn't need to know, and I couldn't care less about what the rest of my barely-allies think of me. I'm already a murderer, why _should_ I care if the other murderers around me know I'm cheating too?

"You're not fucking me in the middle of the corridors," I manage to get out in between us, but I'm really not sure how much of it gets lost in the press of his tongue and lips.

Enough, apparently, for him to hear it and pull back an inch or so to answer, "Showers sound better?"

My grin is sharp and sudden, and I flex the hand on his arm and push my hips up against his leg. " _Much_." I start to lean back in, brush my lips over his, and then hiss, "Better hurry, _Lantern_."

I reach for the lightning in my veins and jerk into speed, ducking down and away from his grip before he can react. He's just starting to move — all in slow motion to me — as I pivot on my heel and take off down the corridor to the right. Towards the rooms, and the communal showers all the way down at the end. I do us both a favor, and slip into our room on the way past to grab the necessary condoms and lube. I always end up being the one to fetch things, and I don't really want to run naked through the base.

The showers are built as individual rooms. Partly because it can be a bitch to get a suit clean of all the grime, but mostly because stalls aren't as anonymous as your own private room. Nobody wants to sling their suit over a door and rely on people's decency not to peek underneath and figure out an identity. So the individual rooms have a benched section for suits, weapons, etc., and then a wall that extends three-quarters of the way across and blocks off the actual shower portion.

The water pressure is _fantastic_ , and they're not huge rooms but it's more than enough for one person. Or two.

I slip into one of the rooms and start the water, using a bit of my speed to get back around the wall before the first spray even hits the ground. I set the condoms — it could be more than one time, and I'm _not_ running for supplies in the middle — and lube as close to the divider as I can get them, and tug the goggles off my head.

Those I toss into the corner, before I reach into the speed force and close my eyes for a second. Vibrating through solid objects isn't _hard_ , exactly, but I need to be pretty deeply connected to the speed force, and in tune with what's around me. It's just a certain kind of movement, a specific _feeling_ , and it was a pain in the ass at first but I got much better at it over time. These days, it's pretty much just a blink and a second away from the right state. The trick is holding it for long enough to get through what I want to.

In this case, that's just a few seconds of holding the vibration and feeling the suit slip down and through me, piling on the floor. I step out of the pile and let myself snap back to the normal world, crouching down to grab my suit and fling it up next to my goggles. Then I turn on my heel and head back around the wall and into the shower itself.

The heat feels _amazing_ , and the beat of the water against my scalp and down my shoulders is just as good. Plus the showerhead is actually tall enough, which is a rare thing. Pays to have a team full of tall people, everything gets built to cater to our height. It's nice to not have to bend my knees and crouch a little bit to get underneath the spray.

I turn around, tilting my head back and letting myself arch as the spray hits between my shoulder blades and across the back of my neck. Both of my hands come up, raking over my face and getting rid of the excess water before continuing up through my hair, combing the wet strands back across my skull. I let my shoulders ease down and my mouth part in a soft sigh of simple pleasure.

Sex is one kind of pleasure, but a good shower is an entirely different one. Sometimes, a better one.

I can hear the door open, close, and footsteps that circle closer. I flick my eyes open, my mouth curling in a small grin. "Took you long enough," I tease.

Hal stays still for a second before moving forward, and there's the whine that comes with the glow of his ring. I watch in appreciation as the suit dissolves off of him, including the domino mask that's all that covers his identity. He's got bruises here and there, but nothing nasty and nothing that looks really painful, so nothing I have to worry about. I can just enjoy all of his bare skin and the slightly narrowed, _heated_ look in his dark brown eyes.

"Some of us can't move fast enough to break the sound barrier," he counters, stepping up in front of me. His hands raise, catching my wrists where my hands are still in my hair, and pushing forward to force me back.

I flick my eyes closed as I pass underneath the water, and he presses me back against the wall of the shower, pinning my wrists above my head. I look back up as he pushes close, warm and wet from his own trip underneath the spray of water. His left thigh finds its way between my legs, and I shift my stance a little wider to make room as he leans in and kisses me. Hot, passionate, but there's no violence in the flex of his fingers around my wrists or the push of his tongue into my mouth. Just lust, and _that_ I can get behind.

I raise my right leg and hook it around the back of his knee, dragging him in closer and definitely using it to press him harder in against my crotch. I'm not completely hard, not yet, but I'm getting there and the wet slide of his skin is definitely helping.

I can hear the sound of his ring activating, and after a few seconds where I don't feel the energy touch me I crack one eye open to figure it out. I trace the line of green back around the edge of the shower wall, and then watch it reappear with the supplies held in a large green hand. I let the single eye close again, and twist my wrists against his fingers just to feel it. His hips push forward against mine, and I can feel him make some small noise that's lost underneath the sound of the water.

His mouth pulls away from mine, and immediately turns to the side and starts pressing small, biting kisses down my jaw and the side of my neck. His teeth graze against my ear, lightly come down on the shell, and it drags a groan from between my teeth.

"Keep your arms up there," he orders, and I arch my neck a little bit but force a snort out.

"What's in it for me?"

I can feel his mouth twist in a grin, and his fingers loosen and slide away from my wrists. I keep them where they are to wait for his answer, which I get when he presses a last kiss to the side of my throat — that one will mark for at least a little while — and then sinks to his knees in front of me.

Oh, _that's_ rare. "Yeah?" I ask, pretending the sight of him looking up at me — water darkening his hair nearly to black and rushing down his back — doesn't steal a little bit of my breath.

His grin is small, but knowing and not in the slightest bit hesitant. "Deal, Quick?"

I twist my arms and curl my fingers into loose fists, grinning down at him. "Deal; consider them glued to the wall."

His hands are on my thighs, and I can feel his fingers press in a little bit as he leans forward. I keep my eyes open, my head tilted down, so I can watch every _second_ of the moment his mouth parts around the head of me. Of course it sucks the air right out of me, and my hands tighten into _real_ fists, but I wouldn't miss a damn second even if I had to fight Owlman for the sight. Not _ever_.

Hal pretty much never does this. He got around to letting me fuck him, and even to letting me — if he's in the right kind of mood — take him on his knees or stomach, but this is still pretty much the one thing that's still completely off the table unless he makes the first move. That, and he's gotta be getting something _good_ in return. It's the last vestiges of his male pride, or something. I don't know, and honestly, as long as I get to see and feel his mouth around me every once in a while I don't _care_. I get the anticipation and the absolutely _amazing_ bit of knowing that he's doing something that's totally just for me, without even complaining.

Way too good for me to actually stop and think about why he doesn't do it more often. I'm not pushing that boundary anytime soon.

I hear his ring activate, and out of my peripheral vision I can see the band of green reach for the bottle of lube set to the side, but I don't tear my gaze away to actually look at it. Instead I bite back a curse — at the cost of letting out a moan — when his tongue prods into the sensitive bits of me with a skill he really shouldn't have. I can't be the only one he's done this for, if he's this good at it. Right?

I shove _that_ thought away — thinking of Hal with anyone else, but especially the _bastard_ that is Owlman, is a sure way to make me jealous and generally pissed off — and get back to watching, feeling, and _enjoying_. The touch of his fingers to my thighs, gripping hard enough to hold me still as long as I don't fight, but not enough to bruise, is a solid grounding point, but the touch of his tongue, the heat of his mouth, the very careful avoidance of his teeth — that I _know_ are sharp and very capable of a lot worse than the bites he sometimes leaves — is enough to get me to fully hard _fast_.

Just the sight is more than enough, honestly. I could have a total lack of sensation and the sight of Hal kneeling in front of me, head ducked between my legs, would still make me hard. I'm almost sure enough of that to bet on it.

His hands leave my thighs, sliding down and then pulling away, and it is beyond tempting but I _don't_ push my hips forward and take advantage of the lack of restraint. I might push and fight and generally challenge him everywhere else, but this is different. He'll back off and leave me hanging in a second if I do something he doesn't like, since this is something that he's so questionable about doing in the first place. It's a much better idea to fight my own reactions and make it as smooth and easy for him as possible; maybe convince him it's worth doing more often.

My eyes flicker closed at a particularly perfect stroke of his tongue, another groan clawing its way out of my throat, and when I open them again his left hand is bracing at the back of my right knee. He glances up at me, not pulling back and _god_ that's a sight I'll dream about, and slowly pulls my leg up off the floor. I'm not going to say it, but I appreciate that he moves my leg slow enough to make sure I can keep my balance on just my other one.

Sure, he takes some of my weight, but with the distraction of his mouth I really, sorta, _need_ it to be slow so I don't fall over. Especially since I'm not allowed to use my hands during this whole thing, not if I want to keep our deal.

I swallow down a moan when he braces my leg over his shoulder and lets go again, and only a _tiny_ bit of that moan is from the heat of the water being on my leg. I can feel him smirk around me, right before he draws me deeper into his mouth. I almost — but not quite — miss the touch of fingers back further, hidden as it is underneath the lightning that spikes up my spine and into the center of my gut, but I really don't miss the finger that slides inside me. The other hand — his right one, I think — slides around the back of the leg I still have on the ground, fingers kneading into my skin. This time, I can't stop the moan.

I twist my hands against the smooth surface of the wall, fighting to keep them exactly where they are and not lower them, like I _really_ want to, to curl in Hal's hair. It's _hard_ , and restraint has really never been my thing, but I just concentrate on how this feels, on how _amazing_ it is, and the fact it will stop if I let my hands come down. I might really want to touch him, hold him, curl my fingers through his hair and ask for _more_ , but this right here, with his mouth around me and his fingers busy farther back, is more than good enough. I'm not going to risk it just because I want to touch.

I'm _not_.

I have to tilt my head back and stop watching, my throat arching as I press my head back hard against the wall. I keep my eyes open, but I'm not really seeing the fall of the water in front of me or the metal of the showerhead that's about a foot and a half above my head. How could I focus on that with Hal between my legs and working like he is? I am _not_ that good at multitasking.

Not with this, anyway.

My breath comes a little short, my leg pressing down over his shoulder because I need _some_ way to vent all the movement that I'm not letting myself have. I'm not used to being still, it's _not_ natural for me, and even this kind of stillness is ridiculously hard. I swear to god Hal must know that, even though I've never told him. Why else, _every_ time we make one of these kinds of deals, does he focus down on making me hold still or keep my own hands pinned down somewhere? He's _got_ to know.

I wrap my hands around my own wrists, digging my nails in to try and ground myself, to focus on anything that might make this last longer. It's not the best angle, and there's not enough support for me to really relax even if I were capable of that at the moment — which I'm _so_ not — but Hal's in the middle of pressing a second finger in to join the first. His free hand releases the back of my thigh to slide around to the front press my hip back against the wall, which gives me just enough warning to strangle back the automatic cry that almost leaves me when he drops his mouth open and manages to get all of me inside.

I'm not small — smaller than Hal is, but that's not the point — and I _really_ don't want to think about where Hal got the experience necessary to ignore a gag reflex like that. I try _really_ hard not to think about what other guys Hal's slept with, I _do_ , but my thoughts always come back to wondering when he has experience I know he didn't get from sleeping with _me_.

How come I've never heard of him sleeping with _anyone_ else? (Except Owlman, but I try to ignore that ever happened and as far as I know it was only once, which doesn't explain anything.)

His hand is hard against my hip, anticipating the twist and forward buck of them that I can't even start to control, and I slam my eyes shut and drag in a breath. My back arches off the wall, but he keeps me pinned where it actually counts and doesn't let my reactions pause any of what he's doing. It makes me grit my teeth, my breath coming faster and only my will keeping any sounds buried and stuck at the bottom of my throat.

I can feel the coil of release low in my stomach, back near my spine, and it's sooner than I'd like but there's nothing I can do about that. When I'm in control I can delay it, hold myself back by doing things just a little off, a little wrong. Not any way that would make him notice, but just enough that it isn't _amazing_ for me. But with him in complete control over my sensation, the only exception being if I let my hands down and cut it all off? No, there's nothing I can do to stop the feeling, and no way to make it last longer.

It's rare I ever last as long as Hal does — comes with the speed, and I recover in a quarter of the time so why should I care? — but sometimes I can get close, and then sometimes there's things like this. Then again, Hal seems to like it when I'm wiped out and pretty much at the mercy of whatever he wants to do to me. Usually, that means finishing whatever kind of preparation and fucking me.

If I'm going to be honest, I like it too. There's something absolutely fantastic about him sliding inside me, hard and hot and nowhere _near_ satisfied, when there's nothing I can do about it. When everything is just a little _too_ sensitive, and there's no chance of me getting hard again for at least a good handful of minutes.

These were _really_ not the things to think about if I was going to even try and hold on any longer.

His fingers slide easily, playing with the sensitive nerves around the rim, and then pushing farther in. I can feel him reaching, knuckles pushing up against the outside of me as his fingers slide further and then curl inwards. I give him what he's looking for, crying out and bucking forward against the hand on my hip. Not enough to move it, he knows my reactions too well to let that happen.

I give a second, sharper cry when he makes some kind of noise around me. It's a smaller version of my trick, but I'm never going to know exactly what it feels like to have a vibrating tongue down there so I can only really guess at the comparison. All the other speedsters are either family or my enemies; _not_ going there.

My grip on my own wrists hurts; sharp pinpricks of pain where my mostly blunt nails are digging in. Not enough to bleed — oh, I know what _that_ feels like — and doing completely the opposite of what pain really should. The tiny edge of it in my wrists is just enough to push me a little farther, a little harder, and add into the crackle of lightning through my veins.

I don't know — I don't think I ever _will_ — why the speed force is linked so closely to my own feelings, and how good I'm feeling. Stress and fear push it away, make it harder to get ahold of, but when I'm riding high on endorphins, pleasure, _joy?_ It's a second away, humming just beneath my skin and riding through my veins with the sharp crack of lightning. It feels _incredible_ ; being that close to the speed force, that buried in it and soaked through, _always_ feels incredible.

I've never tried describing it to anyone, not even Hal or Iris, but I'm not sure I could without it sounding, well, pornographic.

I twist and give another cry that bounces off the close walls of the shower, clenching my teeth harder for a moment before forcing them apart so I can gasp, "God, _Hal_."

He makes another sound, and the coil in my stomach pulls tighter, my back arches a little farther. The leg I'm bracing my weight on trembles, and Hal rolls the opposite shoulder forward so my leg can fall off of it and give me more to stand on. I drag in a strained breath that I don't manage to get all the way into my lungs, and then a second that meets the same fate; caught somewhere in my throat as the tide of pleasure draws back like it's about to become a tidal wave.

Two fingers becomes three, and the coil snaps; the tidal wave crashes.

The speed force comes to life within me, slowing the world down as I arch hard enough it feels like I'm going to snap, my toes curling down into the floor, fingernails breaking skin with a sharp _slice_ of pain that's completely overwhelmed by the pleasure. I can feel it all happening, each individual spurt and the way Hal's hand — slowly, by how I'm living time — increases the strength pinning my hip to the wall, the slide of his fingers inside me a counterpoint to the heat of his mouth. The high extends, lightning _sings_ , and my mouth parts as I take a breath and cry out, louder than anything before.

Time snaps back, and my cry cuts off with a strangled moan at the crash of feelings I was living in slow motion. Hal's mouth stays around me for a few more moments, long enough that I come down and start to relax, and only after my head slips down from the arch of my throat does he draw off me.

It's enough to make me shudder, make my breath catch, and I don't have to open my eyes and look to know that he's spitting to the side, to be washed away by the water. I don't have to care, either. His fingers pull out of me, and both of his hands run up my sides as he moves. I can feel the shift of heat before he presses up against me, mouth finding mine.

There's passion in the kiss, and I can feel him hard against my stomach, but his touch is gentle as it gets to my shoulders and then slides up my arms. His fingers trail over my wrists, my hands, and he pulls back just enough to break the connection of our lips and say, "You know, you can let those down now."

His tone is teasing, and it takes a moment for my brain to catch up to what he's saying.

" _Oh_ ," I breathe, with a soft laugh. I let go of my own wrists, lowering my arms to fall over his shoulders and loop around the back of his neck. "Slipped my mind," I manage to get out, and then let out a soft, happy sigh and relax into the press of him. I brush my lips over his and then across his jaw, down the wet curve of his neck to where I can tuck my head down into his shoulder and just _rest_.

His right hand slides into my hair, and his left moves down across my skin and along the path of my spine — pressed between my back and the shower wall — right down to where it was before. I give a small noise that's muffled by his shoulder, and nearly lost in the sound of the water, as his three fingers push back into me. Not the demanding, hard _fuck_ I was expecting out of them, but a lazy rolling thrust that's much nicer to my sensitized nerves.

I voice my appreciation with something in between a moan and a hum, pulling my right hand up to stroke my fingers across the back of his neck. I tangle them in the shorter, wet strands at the base of his skull, and part my mouth enough that I can get it around some of the skin of his shoulder. He doesn't taste like much besides the salt of sweat and the clean taste of the water, but that's good enough for me.

I feel his lips reciprocate, pressing kisses to the side of my throat, and then he exhales over my skin and presses his face in against me. "Tell me when you're ready," he says, in a low, rumbling voice that's darkened with desire and a basic, simplistic _want_.

I let go of his skin. "You can fuck me whenever, Hal. I'm good." My voice might sound tired, _satisfied_ , and I'm absolutely both of those things for the moment, but the speed force is also humming underneath my skin. I'm far from fragile, and the press of teeth below my ear, as his grip in my hair tightens, says pretty obviously that he likes that.

He takes a step back from me, hands sliding away and out, and I let him go and flick my eyes open to watch. My breath catches a bit at the picture he makes, the water slicing down over his head and running in sheets down his skin, eyes narrowed and dark, _focused_. His teeth sink into his lower lip, gaze dragging down along me, until he raises it back to my face.

"Turn around." There's no pretending that it's a request, and I wouldn't be half as interested if it was.

I gather what strength I've got left, and what's slowly filtering back to me, and flash a smirk at him before I turn around and brace both arms against the wall, letting my legs part in invitation. As much as I enjoy the shove of thighs between them, _forcing_ me to part them, sometimes it's nice to tease Hal with the view too. I curve my back, pushing my chest into the wall, and the strangled groan I get in response is completely and utterly worth the effort.

His hands slide over my hips, and then pull away. I don't look back, but I'm tempted to until I hear the crackle of plastic being torn. Ah, condom. Then Hal's weight is pressing into me, pushing me against the wall, and I feel the hard press of him slide against me before slotting into the right place. My back curves for real as he slides inside me, the push made easy with lube, and my throat arches back with it. His hands come back to my hips, fingers spreading wide and clenching down tight.

" _Fuck_ ," he groans, and I can feel the heat of his breath at my shoulder before his teeth find purchase in my skin. Not hard enough to make me bleed, but enough to sting and undoubtedly leave a mark. Not for long of course; my healing will take care of that.

He pauses, restraint obvious in the grip of his fingers and press of his teeth, before he lets my shoulder go and presses his forehead down against it instead. His hips draw back, and I let my head drop forward against the wall as he slides out of me, and then firmly back in. The first few thrusts are testing, slow, and then he decides on a rhythm. The hard slap of his hips against me drives a gasp from my throat, and the next thrust twists me against the wall and gets a louder noise when it pushes into my prostate. The burst of pleasure is sharp, sudden, and a little too intense to be really nice, but that's alright.

At a basic level it still feels good, and I can enjoy the press of Hal's skin and the slide of him just fine even if the jabs are too much. This part is always mostly for Hal's enjoyment, and I'm not going to try and stop him from hitting my prostate when he's fucking me after I've already come. He might start avoiding it all together, and while that _would_ mean I would last longer it would also take that pleasure from me. A pleasure I like, thank you very much.

Besides, this is as gentle as either of us is ever going to get with each other. Asking anything more is a line we haven't crossed, and I don't mean to. This isn't about _love_ , it's about fucking until we're too tired to move, and venting out all the violence, and the anger, and just _enjoying_ ourselves. Asking one of us to change what they like, to make things better for the other, is _not_ part of the arrangement. That moves things into a territory that shouldn't ever be broached, and as far as I'm concerned never will be. I don't want Hal as anything more than exactly what we have right here.

A good fuck, and someone I can really call an ally and mean it.

So I take it, pressed up against the wall and with his fingers digging into my hips, dragging them back to meet each of his thrusts. His forehead stays against my shoulder for a little bit, but then it pulls back and his mouth presses down instead, sucking marks in that will never last long enough for anyone else to see. It feels good, so I've never stopped him. If he bites, I bite back; that's the way things are between us.

He just leaves more on me than I do on him, because he knows I'll heal from it. Any mark I leave in his skin is going to stay for a while, so I'm usually fairly careful about what I do. He'd be pissed if I left anything above the line of his suit, and that's another line I've never crossed. I confine myself to the rest of him, everything below his Adam's apple that's regularly covered and free game. On my side of things, I can always just stay in a room until it's gone, though he'd have to be pretty ambitious to leave anything my cowl wouldn't cover.

He's managed it once or twice, with hickeys along the line of my jaw, but to leave anything that would even stick around past the end of sex requires him biting pretty damn hard. I don't let him bite my jaw that hard; that goes beyond 'interesting' and into nothing but straight out 'painful.'

Strength comes back to me as the fuck continues, and I brace my arms a little sturdier against the wall and tilt my head back again, giving him the line of my throat to work with. He takes advantage, of course, and his mouth sucks a string of marks up the side, to back right below my ear. It feels like a long time to me, but he must be more worked up than normal because I don't have the time to get hard again before I recognize the increase of speed and ferocity that's the first warning signs of his release.

Then it's the abandonment of my skin between his teeth, his mouth still hovering over my throat but just to breathe. The air's hot against me, and I can feel through the pattern of its presence and the press of his chest against my back that he's breathing hard, fast, with a strained edge to his sounds that makes me absolutely certain he's clinging on. Ready to tip over at a simple push.

My mouth curves in a grin. Or a _shove_.

I reach into the speed force, concentrating for a moment through all of the sensation, and _vibrate_.

He freezes for a second, fingers clenching hard enough to bruise, and then gives a strangled, gasping cry and pushes hard against my back, like he's somehow trying to get more of himself inside. I let the vibrations go as he starts moving again, all but slamming me into the wall, and hold myself steady so he isn't actually knocking me into it. I can't help the breathless laugh that escapes me, and I think the bite to the side of my neck is some kind of payback but it doesn't hurt enough for me to care.

He goes for maybe another minute — my sense of exact, normal time is always kind of fuzzy — before releasing my throat and pushing hard into me. The shout he gives is muffled against my shoulder, but more than loud enough for me to hear and enjoy as he shoves as far into me as he can get. I can feel him throbbing through the barrier of the condom, feel his heartbeat pounding against my back and the tension in his muscles. I might not have had that much to do with it, but it's still a boost to my pride that I can make Hal shout like that when he's with me. Louder too, if I'm the one fucking him.

Then he slumps forward against me, and it forces a grunt out of my chest at the sudden weight pressing me into the wall. I don't dislike it enough to make him get off, or hint that I want him off by rolling my shoulders back — he learned to take that hint after I smacked him in the face with my shoulder a few times — but it's not entirely comfortable. It's only the heat of his body, the wet slide of his skin against mine — still nice, even if there's an ease between us that makes me think this isn't going to have a second round — and the knowledge that even if I did try and get him to move he probably couldn't that makes me hold that impulse back. Though the pants of his breath against the top of my shoulder are pretty nice, and so is the way his hands slide forward from my hips and loop both arms around my waist.

"Enjoying yourself, Hal?" I ask, teasing, and I get a snort against my shoulder.

"You're comfortable," he answers, tired and satisfied and everything that I was just a little while ago. He'll take longer to come out of the glow.

"You're heavy." I get a noise of agreement, but absolutely no change in the press of his weight or his loose grip. No surprise. "Alright, let me at least turn around. You can push my back against the wall all you want."

That gets him moving, slowly, but it's better that it's slow because the slip of him leaving my body drags a shudder through my shoulders. His arms loosen and pull away, and I get enough room between us to push away from the wall and turn around. I do it in time to see the removed, tied condom being tossed to the corner, before Hal steps forward and back up against me. His leg fits between mine, arms circling around my waist again, and his head finds the join of my neck and shoulder and buries itself there.

With him safely distracted I don't have to hide the smile that curls the corner of my mouth. Hal in sex is one thing, but him afterwards, when he's all loose, pliant, and relaxed, is just as good.

I slide my hands around his shoulders and run them down his back, stroking idly as I close my eyes and lower my head. I turn it to press my nose in against his neck, breathing his scent in and letting myself drift for a little bit. The background noise of the water, the rising steam, and the even pattern of his breathing so close to my ear is just about the perfect mix of sensation. It's comfortable, and now that he's not pushing my face and chest into the wall so is the feeling of him pressed up against me.

Contrary to what people think, I _am_ occasionally capable of staying in one place and enjoying a few minutes of relaxation. Just not often, and I have to be in exactly the right mood for it. Otherwise I just get antsy and bored, and then anyone trying to make me stay gets hurt.

For now, I'm alright with just standing here and enjoying this. For now.

Hal moves before I get fidgety enough to tell him to, mouth pressing small kisses up the side of my throat that don't even have any teeth behind them. I draw up, pulling out of the relaxation to raise my head. His arms pull back, hands loosely gripping either side of my waist, and his mouth meets mine. Soft, slow, with no hint of tongue and none of the raw desire from before. He makes a noise that's something like a moan into my mouth, but much quieter, and I pull my arms a little tighter around his back.

"Careful," I say, against the press of his lips. "You're going to get me riled up for a second round, Hal."

He gives a quiet laugh, hands flexing on my waist and his thumbs rubbing small, idle circles into my skin. "How about some sleep in the middle there, speedster? Not all of us can go from zero to four hundred in ten seconds."

"I'm offended you think it takes me that long." My mouth curves in a grin, and I lean in to kiss him again. I keep it as soft and slow as he started, and slide my hands away and down his sides, letting my fingers curl around his hips. It's a convenient place to leave my hands, and it could go either way, depending. Though really, unless he keeps touching, stroking, and kissing the way he is, I'm not going to get anywhere near worked up enough to really go after a second round.

There's something soft between us that I'm not willing to break, not this time.

"Never said it was your best," he counters. "So?"

I consider for a second, a long second, and then give a nod that bumps my nose against his. "If you stick around and take the actual shower with me. I'd like to be clean."

His laugh is a little brighter, and I flick open my eyes to meet the brown, lazy, satisfied — a part of me says _happy_ , but I push that away — gaze not even a foot away from mine. "Barry, you're _crazy_ if you think — even as tired as I am — that I'm missing the sight of you all wet and soapy. Totally crazy."

A grin widens my mouth, and I give him a small shove away from me with my grip at his hips. Not enough to move him if he doesn't want to go, but he follows my silent request. "Sounds like a deal then, Lantern."

He steps back underneath the spray of water, and as my hands fall away from his hips he lets go of my waist and catches my wrists instead. Interested, I let him pull me forward under the spray and up against his chest. The hot water against my back feels _heavenly_ , and I tilt my head back and give a small moan at the feeling of it beating against my neck, scalp, and shoulders. There is no other shower I know of in the whole world with water pressure like this, or such _perfect_ temperature control.

Hal pulls my wrists upwards, and I look back down at him, reluctantly, as he presses a kiss to the underside my right wrist, and then my left. "I reserve the right," he starts with a tiny quirk of one side of his mouth, "to decide I have more energy than I thought, and pin you down to fuck you again when we're back in our room."

I laugh — not mocking, but just _because_ — and tug my right wrist free so I can loop it around the back of his neck and tug him in for a kiss. When I pull back I let my mouth curve in a smirk, and answer, "And I reserve the right to decide I _do_ want more, and work you open so I can fuck you and make you _shout_ for me."

I can feel the tiny shudder in his shoulders, as he swallows. "And what happens if we _both_ cash those rights in?"

"I guess we'll just have to do them both." I grin, he snorts and shakes his head.

"So, I guess sleep was just a fantasy?" He doesn't sound upset, or disappointed, just kind of amused. That's good, because I'm starting to think I might really _want_ to actually do this. Especially considering that I'm probably going to spend the whole shower watching him, like he'll be watching me.

"We can sleep," I allow. "I don't think either of us said we had to do all of this tonight. We can always get back up, and there's always the morning."

"Who gets to do things first then?"

"May the best man win," I offer, and I can see the flicker of challenge in his eyes before he smirks and leans in.

I expect him to kiss me, and my eyes flick shut to accept it, but then he pauses a breath away and says, "I'll take that as a surrender."

My eyes snap back open. "Oh, you _jackass_." He looks _very_ pleased with himself, and I laugh and then give a sharper grin. " _I_ remember making you _shout_ my name more than once, Lantern."

" _Please_ ," he says, smirk widening a bit to show a hint of teeth. "I've made you _scream_ , Quick, and I _dare_ you to top the time I made you black out."

I swallow at the memory, but immediately respond to his challenge by spitting, "You're on."

He _does_ kiss me this time, for just a second, and then he gives an amused huff of breath. " _Good_."


	2. Chapter 2

Welcome back! So here we get into actual like, plot. How weird is that? I swear this isn't just a side story filled entirely with porn (like most of my Earth-3 HalBarry stories, honestly). There is a real, long, sad story behind all of this. Hope you enjoy!

 **Warnings** this chapter for: Mentions/Discussion of character death and some minor violence.

* * *

I wake slowly, shifting and stretching out a little bit. My hand bumps something plastic, and I flick my eyes open and squint.

Alright, that's new. I'm asleep in a chair, arms crossed over the desk in front of me, and my hand is nudging the keyboard of a computer. I raise my head, feeling an ache in my back that _has_ to be from the weird sleeping position as I push myself up, and raise my gaze up to the monitor. There's a news article open on it, the title proclaiming: 'Justice Wins Again!' There's a picture beneath it, a team of heroes, some that I recognize and a few I don't — weird, thought I knew pretty much everyone who called themselves a hero — and there's a police van behind them. It's at a bad angle to see exactly who is being escorted inside — they're mostly hidden by the heroes — but there's the swirl of what's definitely a black cape.

"Well, look who's back in the world of the living."

I freeze up for a second at the voice — too close for comfort — that I recognize as Central City's police chief. He's yelled at me or spat insults and threats of the justice coming my way too many times for me not to know his voice, and that's definitely it. A hand pats my shoulder, and I resist the immediate urges to spin, punch, and otherwise get far enough away from the touch that he can't do it again. Instead I turn around as his hand leaves me, the office chair beneath me spinning easily as I look up at him.

And promptly get a paper cup of something shoved in my face. I stare at it for a second, and the chief makes an impatient noise and pushes it a little closer. "Relax, Barry, just take the damn coffee. I need you awake to do your job; solve my crimes for me so I don't have to get someone less competent on it."

A stunned question, a demand of _'what the hell?'_ , hovers on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down and take the coffee. Something is not right here. Starting with the fact that the guy who's been after me my entire career, looking to put me behind bars, just handed me _coffee_ and told me to solve crimes and do my _job_. What is going on?

"Barry, you with me? You look like your brain has stopped working, which would be kind of a pain in my ass." I _jerk_ my gaze back up to the chief's face — I swear he had a beard last time he tried to surround me with a squadron of cops — as his fingers snap in front of my face. "Earth to Barry. Must have been quite the dream, huh?"

Okay, I am _not_ this green. I might not be subtle, but I at least know the basics of being undercover or something. If you don't know what the hell is going on, but obviously should, play along.

"Y-Yeah," I manage to get out. "Hell of a dream."

He doesn't look totally convinced, but he nods and flicks his fingers at the cup in my hand. "Drink your coffee; get back to work. I've got murders that need solving, Barry." Thankfully, he turns around and heads for a door.

A door in the — I glance around — _lab_ that I'm in, that's a bit messy but I can see at least a half a dozen experiments or stacks of work that are partially done. Is he…? The door closes. Am I a _cop?_

I look down, but the white t-shirt and normal, but loose, dark blue jeans really don't tell me anything. Okay, I just need to _think_. This isn't my kind of thing, but I'm not an idiot and I can at least try and figure out what's going on. I can manage that.

I set down the coffee with tasting it, turning back around and drawing closer to the computer. The article open is just a tab on an internet browser, so I pop open another one and get to work, starting with my own name. I don't get much except a record of graduation from a fairly nice college, which is really weird to me. Normally my name comes attached to a bunch of old articles about my mother's murder and my dad getting sent to jail. The lack of any of that is strange.

A suspicion starts at the back of my gut, something terrible and dark, and I actually hesitate a moment before putting in a search for my assumed identity. Quick. _Nothing_ comes up, and my stomach clenches as I freeze for a second.

No, that can't be right. There's no _way_ that's right. I try again, and then one more time, but still, _nothing_. Worse thoughts snap to mind, and my fingers type out 'Green Lantern' without even a second of hesitation. My breath leaves me in a rush when pictures of Hal come up — as angry looking as ever — and the relief is sharp and sudden. It vanishes just as suddenly when I notice the rest of the pictures.

Hal is there, but so are three other men. A black one, a paler man with red hair, and a thin white kid with black hair. Each of them in a variation of the Green Lantern uniform, with power rings on their fingers and constructs forming out. I _know_ there are other Lanterns, hundreds of them, but none of them are human. Hal's the only Green Lantern that Earth has, he's made _sure_ of that. Who the hell are these other three? Where did they come from?

This is so wrong, and so out of my league. I'm smart, but _science_ is my thing, not this weird mystery where nothing fits and everything is off but I don't know _why_. I need someone with a better tactical mind than me, and it sucks but the best one I can think of is Owlman.

A quick search confirms that yes, Owlman still exists. Still in Gotham, too. No mention of his demon subordinates, the Talons ex and current, but usually they aren't in the news anyway. Besides, half of them are — or were? — scattered across different cities, they wouldn't show up in news with just him anyway. There's something off about the pictures of Owlman that come up, but I can't pinpoint what it is, or why something in me is insisting there's something wrong with them.

So I need to go to Gotham and find Owlman, talk to him, see if he knows what's going on. That's not hard. It's only half a country.

I get to my feet, pushing the chair back, and take a lunging step forward as I reach inwards for the speed force. I'll probably set my clothes on fire, but that's not so bad. There are always more clothes, and as soon as I'm somewhere else I can change into something a little less likely to burst into flames. I can still feel my ring on my finger, so my suit is in there. _Something_ is still the same, anyway.

 _Nothing_ meets my inwards grasp, and I trip on the _lack_ of speed and fall straight onto my face. My nose doesn't break, thankfully, but the impact hurts and I groan, pushing myself back up and onto my hands and knees. I frown, close my eyes and focus in, and find _nothing_. My eyes snap back open, and my breath catches in my throat.

There's no speed force sitting bright and hot in the center of my chest, no lightning in my veins and no hum of the _power_ right below my skin. There's just nothing; I'm _human_ again. I remember what this felt like but only vaguely, and it scares the hell out of me that there's nothing there for me.

Alright, it'll be harder, but I need to get to Gotham _right_ now. I need to know where my speed is, what's happened to the world, and how the hell I fix it. I'm not alright with being a normal human again, even if I apparently never did any of the things that got me branded as a criminal, and got me invited to join the Crime Syndicate.

I get up and turn on my heel, reaching back for the computer. and putting 'Crime Syndicate' into the search. Nothing.

I grab the black coat hanging over the back of the chair I was sitting in — must be mine, even though I don't recognize it — and do a quick pat down to see if I can find… The wallet's in the left pocket of the coat, and there's a phone in the right back pocket of the jeans that I relocate to the other side of the coat. I've got no interest in sitting on anything hard, not unless it's Hal and he's promised me something good.

I shrug the coat on and head for the door, pushing it open and shouldering my way outside. I still freeze for a second at the entire building — turns out the lab is on a second floor, not far from a grand staircase that looks more suited to a city hall or something — of _cops_ , both in uniform and in more casual clothes like I am, or even in the totally obvious dress-casual of a detective. It's a bit supremely uncomfortable for me, and I am _way_ too aware that there's no speed force for me to call on. If any of them turns on me — there shouldn't be a reason for them to, right? — they have guns, and I don't. I'm a decent hand-to-hand fighter, but with my speed it's really never been necessary for me to learn more than the basic ideas of how to survive a fight, and how to hit where it hurts and might kill. Really, the closest thing I've had to a hand-to-hand fight is with Reverse, and he's not any better of a fighter than me.

I try to act casual heading down the stairs, and I _think_ it works. At the least, no one gives me any weird looks. I get a few nods that I echo back, but everyone seems too busy or otherwise involved to actually be doing anything.

The doors at the far end of the room, maybe a couple hundred feet — I measure in miles; anything else has been kind of pointless — past the end of the staircase, push open, and my throat tightens a little bit. The figure that comes through the door is familiar, will _always_ be familiar, and I quicken my pace a bit to get down to the floor level and head over. _Iris_. Even if everything else is falling apart, is _wrong_ , Iris will always be there. We've weathered a lot worse than some kind of strange alternate universe thing together; she's my _wife_ and I love her more than anything else in the world. I always will.

She turns, scanning the room, and my steps falter a little bit when her gaze sweeps right over me. I don't slow down — maybe she just missed me, there's a _lot_ of people down here — but I don't call out to her either. Plenty of time for that, she's still looking for me.

Then her face _lights_ up, and I watch in stunned disbelief as she moves across the floor of the station and meets a man heading towards her. Tall, short blonde hair, with a wide smile and _adoration_ in his eyes. My gut clenches when he embraces her, and they share a kiss that prompts a wolf whistle from somewhere else in the building. It's slow, and I'm too far away — still at the other end of the floor — to hear exactly what he whispers into her ear when he pulls away, but she _beams_ , laughs, and tosses her head back as she steps back from him. Their hands intertwine, and I can see the glint of a ring on hers before they both start moving for the front doors.

There's something dangerous in my stomach, something hard and jealous that wants to launch myself at whoever that is and _rip_ him apart, but my mind intercedes and stops me from acting on it. This is some kind of _messed_ up world, and I already knew that my life wasn't the same. I mean, I'm some kind of cop, and I don't have my powers. That's proof enough. Is Iris being with someone else such a stretch? After all, we _really_ got introduced when she was trying to interview me for her paper, and I was impressed that she was willing to stand up to me despite everything I'd already done at that point. It was _really_ impressive.

If I'm not Quick, and I never had powers, then would we have ever even met? If I'm some kind of cop instead?

This is so far above my head it's not even funny. I need to get to Gotham, _now_ , and I need to track down Owlman — Bruce Wayne, as I found out a while back and never, _ever_ brought up for the sake of my health — and get him to help me figure out what the hell this is and fix it. Even if he doesn't like me, he needs me as an ally, right? At the very, _very_ least he'll help me just to have a speedster on his side; we're nothing to scoff at. He understands how useful I can be, he's _got_ to know.

No one stops me leaving, but as I'm walking out the doors the phone in my pocket starts to ring. I fish it out, wincing a bit at the obnoxious pop song that it's playing, and answer the call without really looking at it. At least phones and things like that haven't changed.

"Hello?"

 _"Hey, Barry,"_ says a cheerful female voice, and I blink and stop in my tracks. That's… it _couldn't_ be. _"Just wanted to let you know that I'm about five minutes away; traffic is a little tight today."_

I swallow, _hard_ , because jesus _fuck_ that's the voice of my _Mom_. I haven't heard it in years and years, but I'd know her voice anywhere and that's it. There's absolutely no doubt in my mind; I just _know_.

"Mom?" I can't help asking, hope and fear and worry all riding high in my chest and threatening to take me apart. I gave up on this a long time ago, I got _over_ it a long time ago. She was killed, I couldn't do anything, and it hurt for a _really_ long time but I moved past it. I got my powers, and then I made damn sure no one could ever hurt me again. She can't be _alive_.

Okay, wait. I looked myself up, and there weren't any news articles about my Mom dying. Nothing. Maybe that's something else that's different, _maybe_ —

 _"Yeah, Bear. Just me. You alright, sweetheart? You sound—"_

"I'm fine," I answer quickly, cutting her off. That nickname makes my throat clench tight, and I have to clear it and swallow to try and get myself together enough to answer. "Just tired, fell asleep at my desk. I'm alright."

 _"Oh,_ _ **Bear**_ _. We can postpone this, if you're that tired. I know things have been busy over there with all that villain activity going on; I won't be offended. Promise."_

 _No_ , I have to… If this is real, if this is one thing that's better in this whole world of everything being wrong and different, then I _need_ to see her. "Wouldn't dream of it," I manage. "Five minutes? I'll be out front."

 _"Good,"_ she answers, with a teasing touch to her tone. _"Because, you know, it's not every day a girl gets older. I was promised dinner."_

It's her— I— _Oh_. "See you soon, Mom."

 _"Love you too, Barry."_ The beep of the call disconnecting is loud in my ear.

Okay, that's… _Jesus_. Alright, no freaking out just yet. I need to stop, think, and _wait_ until she gets here. Make sure this is real before I get my hopes up any further. If it isn't, if this is a game someone is playing, there will be murder. I don't even care that I don't have my powers, I'll rip the bastard's heart out with my own two hands.

 _No_ one messes with my memory of my Mom.

I wait on the steps leading up to the police station, trying to ignore the slight paranoia of even being here to begin with, and watch cars come and go. And people. A _lot_ of people come through, and not all of them have that distinct _cop_ air that I know nearly by heart. A fair amount are just people, normal people, and only some of them look traumatized or otherwise injured. A surprisingly small amount are in handcuffs, too.

When a car pulls into a parking spot off to the side of the spots right in front of the building I track it for a second but don't think anything of it. When a woman gets out, smiling and already looking right at me, my heart skips a beat in total shock.

It's _her_.

Older, with lines I don't remember and a distinct sense of age, but it's definitely my Mom. I don't even have to wait for her to get closer to know that.

I'm getting to my feet and moving towards her before I realize what I'm doing, but even after, I don't stop. I can't. I don't until I'm right in front of her and I can pull her into a hug, wrap my arms around her and _feel_ that this is real. _She's_ real. This isn't some messed up dream, or trick, or anything else. She's really here.

She hugs back, slim arms around my back and her face at my shoulder, but when she starts to pull away I have to make myself let her go. It's not easy, but I swallow down everything that says to cling tight to her and let go, letting her pull away as I look down. _Down_ ; I'm taller than her. That's new, and really strange. I never got old enough to be taller than her before—

"You sure you're alright, Bear?" she asks, looking pleased and kind of amused, but with a worried tilt to her mouth.

Right now? _Yes_. I am so far beyond alright it's amazing, it's… I can't even describe the joy in my chest, the softness and awe and a hundred other things all competing for my attention. I just smile. "Yeah, promise." But there are so many other strange things, things that don't make _sense_ , and I should still— "They're sending me to Gotham for something. Not right now, but I'll have to leave tonight." The lie is out of my mouth before I can really think about it, and I try not to see the way she looks at me like she _knows_.

It's gone again just as quickly, and she grips my arm for a moment and smiles back. "Let's make the most of dinner then, shall we?"

"Absolutely." I lean in and press a kiss to her cheek, unable to help myself and _god_ she's really here. She's really— I never even dared to _dream_ I might get another minute with her. "Happy birthday, Mom."

* * *

The train ride is _long_. I never really thought about how absurdly far it actually is between Central and Gotham for a normal person; one who didn't have super-speed, or jets, or powers that let them fly or otherwise move way faster than they should be able to. It's a _long_ way, and waiting isn't my strong suit. I manage it though, barely. I only have to spend about half the trip stretching my legs up and down the length of the train, and playing mental games to try and distract myself.

Sleep isn't really an option; I'm not used to sleeping around strangers and the train is full of them.

Gotham, when we _finally_ get there, is about the same as I remember it. There are a few buildings I don't recognize, and things in general just seem a bit more, well, _bright_ , but otherwise it's totally the same. The people are the same all-business rush, only a smile here or there and no hint of a laugh, and I can see the lingering paranoia that Gotham always _screamed_ to me.

There's always been something about Gotham citizens that was different from anywhere else. They're harder, more used to people fighting on their streets and, I guess, their city getting run by the Owls. People in Gotham _never_ look at a stranger with trust, or anything even close to it. Not the ones I've seen, anyway.

The Wayne building still towers over everything, so at least that's the same. Owlman has to be here somewhere, though probably not in the middle of the day. As stupid an idea as it might be, I head for Wayne manor. If this isn't my world, if I was never Quick, he might not even know me.

Honestly, I just really hope he doesn't decide to kill me before letting me at least try and explain. Without my powers I'm not a match for him, not even a little bit, and I am really well aware of that fact. Even with my powers, it was always questionable if I could actually beat Owlman if it came down to it. Without it, I'm a regular — if pretty muscled — guy with the barest grasp on how to fight, and he's a human trained to the peak of everything possible. He could kill me in _seconds._

It takes a taxi ride to get there, and the gates are firmly shut. The driver gives me a strange look, but I pay him with a card and he leaves it alone. He drives off, leaving me at the gate, without saying a word. Money will influence anyone.

I'm not stupid enough to try climbing the gate, or the fence next to it. Instead I approach the small box to one side of the gate, a speaker with an intercom button, and after a second of hesitation — this is a bad idea, probably, _absolutely_ — I hold it down and lean down to speak into it.

"Hi, I'm looking for Mr. Wayne?" Be polite. This is his territory, _don't_ piss him off until you're in a position to at least talk to him face to face.

There's a long few seconds of silence after I release the button, almost enough to make me try again, before the speaker crackles to life.

 _"Master Wayne does not accept visitors, sir…?"_ The question is obvious.

"Barry Allen," I answer, even though it shouldn't mean anything. Probably won't mean anything to them? I really don't have a handle on exactly what's going on yet.

 _"Apologies for the wasted trip, Mr. Allen,"_ the imperious British voice says, not sounding even a _little_ sorry. _"I can take a message, if you like."_

Alright then. Time to play my cards. "It's about Owlman. I need to talk to Bruce. He doesn't know me and I'm not here to out him or anything, but I have to talk to him." There's more silence, and I belatedly add on, "Please."

There's a sharp beep, and for a second I am _very_ convinced that whatever Owlman's defenses are they're about to cut me to ribbons, before the gate starts to swing open. _"Master Wayne will see you. Come inside. If you deviate from the main road the defenses will activate; I would recommend you not do so."_

I don't answer, but the tone makes me swallow as I turn and loop around the open gate. It starts to close before I'm even all the way through it, and I speed up a bit so it doesn't close _on_ me. The gravel driveway is long, stretching to the manor that's about a thousand feet away, long and curving and finally ending in a circle around some kind of statue thing. I really don't know what it's supposed to be.

Before today I would have been across the whole thing in the blink of an eye, and it feels _strange_ to have to actually trudge my way up there as time passes, slowly. It's ridiculous, I don't know how normal people manage doing this every day. How did _I_ manage it before I got my powers? This is so unbelievably boring, and such a waste of time, and it's not even, comparatively, that far of a walk as it was, say, Central to Gotham. For instance. Am I really that spoiled?

The front door is closed when I get there, but after I knock it swings open to a severe, older man that must be the British voice from the intercom. he doesn't say a word, just steps aside and lets me in. He doesn't look pleased in the slightest, and his eyes are narrowed, but he does let me in so I count that as a victory. For now. I'm not worried about Owlman's _butler_ anyway, I'm way more concerned with the man himself. He can't be pleased to have been called out on his identity by some random guy at his front gate.

I'm still assuming that he doesn't know me. I'm _pretty_ sure I'm right.

The butler closes the door as I stand in the marble-floored entry way, a large staircase to the right and a collection of closed doors up and down the long stretch of room. Otherwise it seems bare, weirdly so. What little art is on the walls looks stiff, untouched, and this does _not_ feel like a home. I mean, I don't really know what I expected the Owl-family home to look like, but somehow this isn't it. It just feels so _unlived_ in. With four Talons it _had_ to be a little more lived in than this, right? Even if most of the time those Talons are scattered across different states.

 _One_ of them is still in Gotham.

"So, point me in the right direction?" I ask, turning to the butler. He looks stiff and all kinds of _unhappy_ and _angry_ — in a really cold, detached way, which is _weird_ — but he raises a hand in a sweeping invitation and nods his head towards a door to the right.

"Master Wayne is within, Mr. Allen." And his tone is just as stiff. Okay, I have _not_ made any friends there. Got it.

I head for the indicated door, open it, and I will deny to the day I die that I _yelp_ when a hand curls in my shirt and _yanks_ me through before it's even fully open. My reflexes aren't as good, neither are my senses, but I get the impression of round, white screens where there should be eyes and a sneer before I'm flying through the air. My back cracks across something hard and wooden, and it moves but not enough to make me think it hasn't done _serious_ damage considering the pain. I crash to the floor, which is more hard wood, and gasp in a breath that I barely get all the way in before there's a metal gauntlet curling through my hair and wrenching my head up.

I flail a bit — _oh_ yeah, that's Owlman — but he catches my left wrist in his other hand and doesn't pay any attention to how I'm struggling. My back aches, _burns_ , and I swallow back whatever kind of sound is clawing at my throat and try and make myself go still. I pull my gaze up to his mask, and the curl of his sneer is familiar, but off. Something isn't right about the man above me, his claws scratching at my skin, even though he's dressed head to toe in the familiar suit. Something else is…

"You have roughly _ten_ seconds to convince me that you're going to cooperate, and I shouldn't start slicing you apart to find out your reasons myself." His voice is the same growl, just slightly modulated by whatever kind of technology he's got, but something about the way he speaks, the way he pronounces words… _Something_.

"You're not Bruce."

In hindsight, it was a really dumb thing to say to someone who has me on my knees in front of them. An armored knee snaps into my face, crunching against my nose and I shout, jerking back but only as far as the grip in my hair and around my wrist will let me, which isn't far. I can taste blood on the back of my tongue, feel the _pain_ at the center of my face, the shift of cartilage because — great, _wonderful_ — my nose is definitely broken. His hands tighten, and I swallow blood as it runs back down my throat from the angle, clenching my hand to not try anything stupid.

"Clearly," the man above me all but snarls. "Would you like to add in anything else that obvious or shall I get started?"

"No, I mean," this is dumb, this is _so_ dumb, and the pain of my nose and the dizziness attests to that but I'm already doomed anyway, "Owlman is Bruce Wayne. You're not Bruce, you're not _him_. There's something—"

He lets go of my hair and twists my wrist, and automatic reaction to the painful arch of my arm forces me to the ground, where one reinforced boot presses down against my shoulder. Both of his hands are around my wrist now, and that feels like a threat even though I'm not totally sure _why_. Either way, his claws are digging in hard enough to break the skin, and press of the foot at my shoulder aches from the weight behind it.

"Try again; before I break something besides your nose." _That_ threat is obvious, and I swallow down another mouthful of blood and clench my eyes shut for a minute to try and deal with the pain.

"Alternate universe," I spit out, like it's some kind of shield. "I am _not_ here to do anything but talk, I swear to god. I woke up and everything was different, and I am _not_ crazy and you are _not_ the Owlman I'm used to, alright?" I manage half a grin, even as one of his hands curls around my fingers, and I'm _really_ sure he's about to break at least one. "I have _had_ my fights with Owlman and I've been around him enough to know what he's like. You're close, but you're not right. I just _know_."

His fingers twist my pointer around, and I grit my teeth from the pain. It doesn't _quite_ break, but it's close enough to strain, hurt, and _threaten_ a break. "Who the hell are you?" he demands, and that is a question I am _more_ than happy to answer if it means he doesn't break my finger just yet.

"Barry Allen," I gasp out. "You probably don't know anything about me, but in _my_ world I was part of an organization called the Crime Syndicate that _my_ Owlman put together. I had super-speed, I was called 'Quick.' "

"I'd call you a _lunatic_ ," he snarls back. "There's no such thing as the Crime Syndicate; I would _know_ about it."

He twists my finger a little farther, it grinds in a way that I'm _really_ not comfortable with, and my other hand clenches at the pain. "Wait, _wait!_ Look, the ring on my finger. It's a storage for my costume. Just press the middle, and don't point it towards your face."

The grip on my finger relaxes, lets go, and I swallow back relief. He twists my hand, pointing it safely across the room, and his claws dig into the ring until it pops open. My costume expands from the compressed fold, shooting out into the room, and his head turns to follow it. I can't see where it ends up, but he holds me for a second longer before letting go. His heel does dig into my shoulder as he steps away, purposefully, but I am _not_ going to even comment on it. I gingerly raise my hands to my face, prodding at my nose, and decide that it's probably not _that_ bad of a break.

My gaze snaps up as the Owlman above me raises both hands, latching them underneath his chin and at the base of his neck. My mouth goes just a little dry, somehow, as he pulls off the helmeted section of the costume and drops it to the side.

The face underneath is young, early twenties, and there's no mask over the bright blue eyes but I'd recognize who he is anywhere; it's just especially easy in this kind of a context.

" _Nightingale_ ," I breathe, and he stares down at me with a seriousness and an _anger_ that I've never seen on the first Talon's face. He's always smiling, and I'm not stupid enough to think that his smiles aren't a threat, but it's part of who he is. It's part of what _defines_ him.

"Bruce is dead," he snarls, eyes narrowed and both hands at his sides. "How did _you_ know who he was? There's _no_ version of him, whatever you're claiming, that would tell anyone but our family."

I swallow, pushing up on my arms. "He didn't. I followed him one time and got lucky, that's all. What _happened?_ I was pretty sure he was indestructible, even if he was just a human."

His face tightens for a second, and then there's a sharp flash of a smile that even to me — I'm _not_ the best at reading people — looks hollow. "I didn't choose to take the mantle, _Allen_. I'm just as dangerous as he was, so how about you start by telling me more about what you think happened to your world, or you, and I won't take you apart to find out if there are any physical differences?"

I swallow again. "Okay, to start with, I've got powers. I'm married to a woman who apparently is married to someone completely different now, my mother's _dead_ and she's not in this world. Hal, the Green Lantern—"

"I know his name," Nightingale as Owlman answers, cutting me off. His name is… Dick? Dick Wayne? No, Dick _Grayson_ , I remember. The Waynes are all famous, but he's the _really_ famous one. Child acrobat or something, if I remember correctly. I only did the tiniest bit of research on the Waynes before abandoning it; there was some part of me that was freaked out and convinced that if I kept looking and actually _learned_ something, Owlman was going to come swooping down and kill me on the spot.

"Alright, so in my world he's the only Green Lantern on Earth. He's part of the Crime Syndicate, next to me, my Owlman, Ultraman, Super Woman, Sea King, Grid, and J'onn J'onzz, the martian." I swallow, wince at the pain, and try not to focus too closely on how he's looking at me. Flat, angry, disbelieving. "We're a long way from friends, any of us, but Owlman, Bruce, brought us together to be a united force against the heroes. I guess he must have died before that could happen here."

"He had plans," Nightingale admits, "but nothing was finalized." He takes a breath, and one hand twitches up like he wants to rub it over his face — or maybe strangle me — before he sneers. "Ultraman is dead, Grid was disabled by the government, Sea King is a prisoner in Atlantis, Super Woman is one in Themyscira, and I've never heard of a martian villain. Obviously, I don't know you, and the Green Lanterns are powerful but they're a long way from being any kind of a real team."

That's… " _Fuck_."

Nightingale's smile is strained, tight, and totally unnatural on a face that I'm used to flashing smiles and selling _sex_ no matter what. "Good description. What do you want from me, Allen? Now that you know I'm not who you were looking for."

"Well," I pause, hesitate a second. "I wanted help figuring out what the hell happened, and how to fix it. No offense to your world, but it kinda sucks compared to mine. I mean, it's got its perks," my Mom's _alive_ , "but in mine we're a group of successful crime lords and rule most of the country from behind the scenes."

"Sounds like fun," Nightingale replies blandly, and tilts his head to study me. There's something calculating and cold in his eyes, and I very slowly get to my feet underneath the look. "I might be able to help. At least I might know someone else who can. There's not many of us left, but it doesn't matter."

I stare at him, _finally_ noticing that he's shorter, slimmer than Bruce ever was in that suit. "Is it just you? Where are the rest of the Owls? Where's Talon?"

His fist slams across my face, hard even though I got almost _no_ warning for it, and I stumble backward into what I think might be a chair. He advances on me, something dangerous in his eyes and his hands held still at his sides, curled to make the claws an obvious threat and a _weapon_. He moves with the stalking grace that I remember, it's just not as refined, and it's not as obvious underneath the metal armor. I'm half convinced he's going to kill me, whatever he might have said just a moment ago, until he stops, visibly reins himself in, and curls his mouth into a snarl.

" _Ever_ ask about the rest of my family again and I'll cut your throat, are we clear?"

"Crystal," I manage to get out, not that it makes any sense to me. There should be two other ex-Talons, the current one, and a collection of women as Owls on the side, only partially connected to any of Owlman's work. I mean, Red Hood only sort of counts, but Owlman always has a Talon. Always.

He backs off, sweeping low to pick up his helmet from the floor and tug it back on. "Pick your suit up and follow me, Allen. We have a lot to plan out."

Well, at least Nightingale knows how to be something apart from the attractive, deadly thing that I know him as. An Owlman that was all threatening smiles wouldn't be the same as the smirking, cold, dismissive one that I know. Maybe not any less scary — and Nightingale has _always_ been scary underneath that 'come fuck me' vibe he gives off — and definitely not any less dangerous, but it just wouldn't be right. Not to me, anyway, and not to anyone who knew the old Owlman. A smiling Owlman, a _bright_ one — no matter how much those smiles are just meant to scare anyone who knows enough and distract the ones that don't — wouldn't be the same kind of dark shadow that Owlman has always been.

It's not exactly a comfort, and it's a long ways away from being comfortable at all, but it's just the way things have to be for now. I was expecting Bruce as Owlman, to get all of his mind, strategy, intensity, and resources behind this universe issue of mine. If he didn't want to help at the very least he'd tell me what was different, help me figure out exactly what this world has in common with mine. Maybe, even, if I could live in it. If there was no fix for whatever the hell has happened.

But having Nightingale instead is… not quite the same.

I don't know much about him, honestly. I know he's got the mind and the charisma to lead the younger generation; all the other Talons and all of our sidekicks and subordinates — my nephew Wally included — but by himself? I've got no idea how good a leader he is; I've only ever seen him underneath the command of Owlman, or with a collection of the rest of that team. I'm pretty sure that he runs the team by himself, including commanding them in a fight, but I'm not positive. I hardly ever pay attention to anything but the people I'm fighting, and whatever might get snapped in my ear as an order. That's never Nightingale.

I head over and grab the folds of my costume from the ground to my left, letting my hands clench around it as I turn to follow Nightingale. I guess I really don't have much of an option; if he's offering help what choice do I have but to take it?

This world isn't going to fix itself.

* * *

The Roost is not at all like what I expected it to be. It's a dimly lit cave — okay, that part is exactly what I imagined; I've never actually been here, I wasn't that crazy — with metal platforms built in against the walls, with huge gaps that vanish into darkness, and even though everything is clean it has a distinct _untouched_ look. Everything is _precisely_ in its place, with not a single thing even slightly crooked, or any doors of the cabinets just slightly open, or anything. It's like no one actually exists down here, they just pass through like ghosts.

Nightingale, Dick, leads me down a long flight of stairs to a large computer set up in what's clearly the center of the entire cave. He pulls the chair in front of it slightly away from the console and taps a fast — too fast for me to follow, right now — command into the keys to start the screen as he sits down. The back is high, and the chair is clearly made for someone broader and taller than him. Bruce, I'd bet that nothing down here has been readjusted to account for Nightingale being slightly smaller. I stand next to him as the computer flicks to life, a dozen files popping up before he minimizes all of them to a black background. Only the sight of a few icons in each of the bottom corners keeps me from assuming that he's shut it back down.

He turns to me as I lean against the console, but I'm a bit distracted looking around the room. Mostly, my attention is on the two glass cases to the left of the computer. One with a slightly different, less armored, version of the Owlman suit that Dick is wearing. The other is obviously the Talon uniform, but not a version of it that I recognize. It's not Black Talon's, or the current Talon's. Is it the one who died, the one calling himself 'Red Hood' and currently making life hell for the rest of the Owls? There are plaques at the bottom of each case, but the letters on them are tiny and I can't read the names from here.

Nightingale waits for me to refocus on him after I finish a scan of the cave, looking at the car and the jet — where are the bigger ones? — pulled onto metal platforms on this level, in front of a large metal door that clearly is some kind of an exit. Probably the vehicle exit, it has to be big enough to get those things out of here after all. They're not the more massive jets that I've seen Owlman use — just the one-seater that he usually uses in combat — but they're still pretty big.

"My question," he says, when my eyes come back to his, "is — assuming you're telling the truth — why you're the only one that remembers the 'original' world. If the world had simply changed overnight there would be others that remembered, why _only_ you?"

Alright, so Nightingale has a mind behind his looks. That's good. That's really what worried me most, actually. I needed someone _smart_ to get through this, and Nightingale's always been pretty and ruthless, but I didn't know if he was smart the same way that Owlman and Black Talon are.

"Maybe there are others somewhere," I offer, and then wince sharply. Oh, broken noses are not fun. I'm going to have to set that at some point, and that's _not_ going to be pleasant.

Nightingale ignores both my expression, and the nasal tinge to my voice. "Let's assume there aren't for now. If it's just you; _why?_ " He considers me, eyes narrowing, the claws of his gauntlets tapping against the arms of the chair. "My first guess is that _you're_ the one that caused it."

I scowl as best I can, glaring down at him. "Woah, hey, _no_. I wouldn't do this. Besides, I don't time travel. It's too dangerous; especially to me."

There's a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as his chin raises to meet my look head on. "You're _capable_ of time travel?"

"Do you guys not have _any_ speedsters?" I ask, and then pause and stop. "Oh, no, you wouldn't, would you?" That line didn't _start_ with me, but without the accident that gave me my powers, Wally would never get his, and so on through my family. Without me, Reverse never comes back to try and stop me. I'm kind of the focal point of all of the speedsters. "Yes, at a certain point speedsters can break through what we call the 'time barrier.' But it's _really_ dangerous, and if you don't know what you're doing, or you don't have the right kind of connections, there's a high chance that you get absorbed back into the speed force and die."

Nightingale's head tilts. "And you're certain _you_ didn't cause this?"

"Like I said," I say, glaring a little harder, "I don't time travel. None of my family would either. It's too dangerous and too risky. We aren't that selfless or that self-sacrificing. I _didn't_ do this, and don't even go into the rest of my family because they didn't either. None of us are that _dumb_."

A smirk flickers across Nightingale's face, but he doesn't argue or comment. "Alright, my second option would have been that you remember what you do because you're connected to the same force that made this possible, but if the rest of your family didn't do this—"

"Okay, wait." I pause, think about things, and then continue by telling him, "My family is _almost_ all of the speedsters, but I've got a nemesis hero too, called 'Reverse.' He's got all the same powers that I do, theoretically he's capable of time travel. He _is_ a hero, this kind of a world might be just what he wants to happen."

Yeah, a world where all the villains are either dead, imprisoned, or slowly failing would be _right_ up Thawne's alley. More importantly, a world where I never even _got_ my powers would be something that he might risk time travel for. He's not stupid either, but I know that he got back to my time at least, so he must have some kind of ability to time travel. I don't know if he used the speed force, or if it was some kind of future technology, but I know he's definitely from the future. He might know how all of this works, and how exactly to do it safely. That _would_ make sense, and if he used the speed force to time travel that might explain why I can remember all of this.

Nightingale makes a soft noise to regain my attention, and then arches one eyebrow and asks, "If you had your powers, couldn't you just change back whatever it is that created this alternate world?"

I shake my head — oh, bad idea — and grimace. "It's not that simple. Even if I could replicate the accident that gave me my powers — which I actually _probably_ can — and it was Reverse that changed something, I still have no idea what he changed. It could be any point in history, and I can't just go back, change something, and hope that it's the right thing. The results could be… Well, catastrophic doesn't even begin to explain it. Plus, I told you, I _don't_ do time travel. Way too high a chance of death."

Nightingale leans back in his chair, crossing one of his legs over the other and looking _very_ unimpressed. "Not even to fix all of this? I seem to remember that you said you like the world you came from. If time travel caused this, then clearly time travel is going to be the only thing that will fix it. Your speed is the only thing capable of that, unless you have some other method of time travel that I don't know about."

"That's not fair," I complain, and Nightingale smirks and rolls one shoulder in a shrug. Damn him, but he's right. "Before we even talk about this, how about we just start by getting my powers back? If you want me to even _think_ about trying time travel, I need my speed back."

"Alright, what do you need for that? You said you could probably recreate the accident, so I assume you know how it works."

"A variety of chemicals, and some _really_ bad weather." I wince. "Like, thunder and lightning type stuff. Can you make that happen?"

Nightingale almost looks offended, head tossing a bit in something I actually remember from _my_ version of Nightingale. "Clearly you don't know Gotham; of course I can. Give me a list of what you need, and I'll collect it for you. And this is _Gotham_ , Barry, bad weather is part of the equation."

"Then I'll make that list."

Nightingale moves, standing tall and never breaking the eye contact with me. "This is all _assuming_ you're telling the truth, and I will be _very_ unhappy if you're not. Understand me?"

I manage a small grin past the pain of my nose. "Don't worry, Nightingale, I _know_ what your version of 'unhappy' looks like. Wouldn't risk it. Either I'll get my powers back or I'll die, so really there's no downside for you anyway. Got a pen?"

* * *

This is probably an absolutely terrible idea. Even with the metal and leather strapping me down into the chair, this could go wrong a thousand different ways. But, I guess, it's actually safer than what happened to me before, and Wally _proved_ that it was just a case of doing that same thing over again. It didn't need to be a specific place or time, it just needed to be the right chemicals and a lightning bolt. I can get both those things here, no problem. Especially the lightning, because Nightingale was absolutely right.

Gotham's weather is pretty _awful_.

Nightingale, helmet back on, is standing at my side. We're set up at the back of the manor, in a grassy section within the tall fence that circles the entirety of the property. There are small tables to either side of me, hooked up with metal strips, with all the chemicals that I remember — and in the same quantities — to either side of my arms, and there's an entire array set up to catch lightning and then guide it down into me. Yeah, great. Purposely getting myself hit by lightning, that's _smart_.

There's a storm overhead, and everything but the switch to actually extend the lightning rod is ready. Nightingale tilts his head up, looking at the sky and looking displeased at the rain coming down on both of us. Or maybe just at this whole thing in general, and I don't blame him for that. It looks pretty crazy if you don't know what I do.

"You're sure about this?" he asks, disbelieving, and I flex my hands on the arms of the chair and give as much of a shrug as I can.

"Well, either I get my powers back or I die, and no offense but I'll take the chance. I'm not going back to being a normal human after what I had, no way." Plus, he _is_ right. If Thawne is the one who did this, then time travel might be the only one way to fix it, and I'm best qualified to do that. I might choose to stay in this world instead of risk it, but… Well, best to have my options open, I guess.

Nightingale scoffs, flips the switch, and backs off about a dozen feet. I don't blame him for that either. His arms cross, and I glance up at the sky and settle in to wait, and it's just awful. Only partially because I'm really unused to doing it, but mostly because I'm waiting to get hit by _lightning_ , staring at a stormy sky and blinking rain out of my eyes, and really that's just awful. I'm not used to waiting, and I'm _really_ not used to just waiting for something painful to happen without trying to get out of the way. I'm not usually the person setting myself up for pain; it's not my thing, and it's kind of, well, _painful_.

When it does happen, it's faster than I'd ever even considered giving it credit for. There's a flash, I _barely_ have time to register it, and then _pain_ sings into my veins. I arch, _jerking_ against the restraints and _screaming_ , and distantly I can hear the shattering of glass and the sizzle of skin. It's not that different from the first time this happened, actually, except that I blacked out a lot faster. Last time, I didn't have the same tolerance for pain that I do now, and my brain pretty much shut down to protect me. This time, it doesn't kick in because even though it's _agony_ , I'm used to that now.

I have broken _so_ many bones, and gotten injured _so_ many times, that a little pain doesn't mean much to me anymore.

It burns, my vision is tunneling, and then I can _feel_ it happen. It's _very_ different this time, now that I'm actually conscious for the change.

Last time I woke up with the lightning in my veins, and the speed force humming beneath my skin, and it was terrifying until I learned what was happening to me. But this time, I can _feel_ the moment that whatever the catalyst is happens. I can feel the lightning in me rebound, sticking in place as heat and power _bursts_ into my veins, and I can _feel_ the second that the speed force comes back to me. I reach for it, brushing away the last of the pain, and the world slows down around me. I look to the side, and there's a shockwave of energy speeding out from me that's knocked Nightingale off his feet.

I move before thinking about it, stripping out of the leather restraints and moving to catch him. My arms circle underneath his back as I go to one knee, beneath the cape and the metal armor, and then I let the speed force go. He's heavier than I expected, but I manage to keep him up as a grin curls my mouth.

"Told you I wasn't lying," I say, smugly.

Nightingale jerks, curling in on himself and almost looking like he's going to automatically strike out at me, before he eases a little bit. He doesn't immediately lift himself up out of my grasp, and I'm not quite enough of an ass to drop him in the mud. Satisfying as that might be, angry Owls are something to be avoided. Even if this Owl doesn't have any experience fighting a speedster, and I could probably wipe the floor with him, he's also my only sort-of ally for the moment, and I don't know enough about this world to do all of this by myself. I need someone who knows what's happened in this world, and can get me around security, heroes, and the government. Even if he's not Bruce, any Owl can do something like that. It's just who they _are_.

Nightingale's mouth curls in a smirk, and one clawed gauntlet rises to stroke along the side of my face. I try not to pull away from the dangerous claws, and his smirk gets a little more defined as he lowers the gauntlet without actually scratching me. I slowly lever both of us back up to standing, getting him back onto his feet, and he seems content to let me. At least, he doesn't pull away. In fact, even when he's back on his feet he doesn't immediately move to stop me from holding him. He just meets my gaze, keeping that smirk twisting his lips.

"Interesting," he says, quietly. "So, I think it's time that you tell me a little bit more about your version of our world, now that I know you're not lying. Inside, maybe with a meal?"

"That almost sounds like a date," I tease, _way_ more comfortable teasing Nightingale than I ever would the real Owlman. Nightingale is equally scary, and arguably meaner, but I can probably manage him if he gets really nasty. Owlman, on the other hand, I'm pretty sure would beat me into the ground. I've never tried him.

Then he does pull away, chin rising a bit as he gives a sharp smile that looks more like the Nightingale I know than anything else he's done so far. "You can call it that, if you're that delusional." The tone is flippant, just as teasing, and then he's sweeping away from me and back towards the manor.

I turn after him, chasing him down and speeding up beside him to keep pace with his stride. No chance of anything of mine catching fire when it's this soaked through, so I don't have to worry about the friction for right now. Speaking of, "Have you got anything that might fit me? Sneaking suspicion here, but I don't think you'd appreciate me sitting on any of the fancy furniture in there while I'm this soaked."

He pauses, and there's a flicker of an expression on his face that tightens his mouth to a thin line before it eases back into the smirk. "I'm sure I can find something. At worst, I suppose you'll have to wear a towel until your clothes have gone through the dryer."

"Doesn't sound like you think that's a bad thing," I point out, as he pushes the back door of the manor open and slips through. I follow, standing on the tile and closing the door behind me as he turns to face me.

"You're not that far down on the scale, Allen. I appreciate what people put on display."

"I know," I answer, without thinking about it, and then immediately backtrack. "Not that— I mean—" His smirk looks real now, and he tilts his head and turns his back on me, sweeping down the hallway. I try not to consider what I might have just implied, and hesitate instead. "So, am I staying here, or following you, or…?"

"Stay there," he calls over his shoulder. "Strip if you want, I'll enjoy the view, but you can wait for clothes to replace them if you prefer."

Yeah, we're going to go with that one. I already said more than I meant to, and I really don't need to let Nightingale wrap me around his fingers. Been there, done that. It was… It was _really_ good, actually, but I only got the one night and he never made another offer. I was never stupid enough to try and press the issue, and I had Hal anyway so it wasn't like I was desperate for it. It was good when I had it, but I didn't need to press him for another night when I had Hal willing to fuck me pretty much any time I wanted.

Plus Iris.

I stare down at the puddle forming under my feet, raising a hand to push my hair back along my skull and grimacing at the rain. I really don't like being soaked through, and rain provides all _kinds_ of unique challenges to super-speed that I just despise. Like raising the spilled oil to the surface of roads and making them slippery. Or, in certain places, freezing into a surface level of ice that is just _hell_ on any kind of real speed. There's nothing like trying to run down a highway with black ice frozen to the surface. It just _sucks_.

I'll take a hot day over rain any day. At least with a hot day I've got the wind from my speed to cool me down.

Plus, having water soaking through my clothes and making them cling, damp and uncomfortable, against my skin is just really unpleasant. I have tried drying them out with friction, but it's not a good idea. I can do it, it _does_ work, but then if I miscalculate how much it takes I can just as easily set them on fire, and that kind of ruins the point of drying them out. I went through enough clothes figuring out exactly what I could do in them and what I couldn't. It's good that I heal so quickly, because I got burned a lot during that time period.

Speaking of healing.

I raise both hands to my nose, gingerly prodding at it. I wince — it's still sore — but persevere and try to figure out exactly where the break is, or was. Turns out it's a case of 'was,' and I'm pretty much healed. The rest is just bruises and lingering soreness, and that should be gone before too long. I could probably use a shower though, or a cloth, or _something_ to clean off what I'm totally sure is a trail of blood down over my jaw. I can taste it on my tongue, so it has to be a pretty impressive trail.

I shuffle back and forth, trying not to fidget too badly, as I wait. Finally, what feels like _way_ too long later, there are footsteps, and I look back. It's Nightingale, out of the Owlman suit and dressed in a pair of loose black sweatpants and a white tank-top, with a bundle of what looks like clothes under one arm. He's… _Jesus_ , his arms look like they're carved marble. That is some _muscle_. My memories do not do Nightingale's musculature justice, obviously. That, and without his mask his face comes neatly together and is _beyond_ handsome. He's got the kind of stunning good looks more suited for a model than a crime lord.

"If you're going to stare," he says evenly, with a thin smirk, "you could at least give me something to look at in return." He stops in front of me as I startle, catching his gaze and then looking sharply away.

"Just not used to you without your mask," I try and explain, and he shrugs.

"I imagine most people aren't, not in your world anyway. Clothes that should fit you, more or less, and a towel to dry off with." He offers me the bundle, and I quickly shove the sleeves of my soaked, collared shirt back up above my elbows so I can take the bundle without getting it soaked as well. "There's a bathroom over to your left, through that arch and then the first door on the right, if you feel the need for privacy. But really, I think it's only fair you give me a show, since you seem so convinced that I'm one."

"You love being watched," I counter, and his smirk widens, flashing a slice of bright white teeth.

"What's your point? It's a suggestion, Allen, not an order. I _could_ carve the clothes of you," his left hand flicks up, and there's the sharp glint of metal from a knife that I have no _clue_ where he got, "but you're bloody enough already, and I don't think you'd appreciate it nearly as much as I would."

Oh, to _hell_ with it. "Alright," I agree, narrowing my eyes. If Nightingale wants to play, oh I can _play_.

I flash him a grin, seeing the realization that I'm about to do something he isn't expecting, and then reach inwards and tap into the speed force. I get to watch his reaction in slow motion as I set the bundle down to the side, strip out of my wet clothes, dry off, and tug into the dry ones. All in super-speed, and in the span of a few seconds of normal time.

I come back out of it, catching the suppression of the widening of his blue eyes, and casually tug the plain black t-shirt the last inch or so down my torso. It's a little loose on me, worn by someone with wider shoulders who definitely stretched it out a bit — Bruce's clothes? — but at least the grey slacks more or less fit. In fact, they're actually just a little bit tight around my thighs. I've got more muscled thighs than pretty much everyone else I know; comes with being a speedster. Everything I am is built on running.

Nightingale's mouth slips into a smirk, as I grin at him, and he tilts his head. "Fair enough," he concedes. "Leave the clothes, they'll get taken care of later." This time, when he turns his back, I follow him. He's slower this time, and it's more obvious outside of the Owlman suit that his particular stalking walk is still very much part of him.

Admittedly, I spend a second just staring at the exposed circle of his shoulders that the tank-top doesn't cover, and the play of his shoulder blades as they stand out beneath the thin fabric. Hal is handsome, and Iris is beautiful, but they're not _gorgeous_ the way that Nightingale has always been. He's a little different now, a little thicker and a little less slim — or maybe it's just that his suit as Nightingale emphasized that he was tall and lean — but he's still absolutely gorgeous. He _knows_ it too, always has.

"So, you mentioned food." I ate a while back, on the train, but with my speed back I'm going to need more than that. Especially if I'm actually going to be doing anything more with my speed than just having it. Any kind of fighting is going to need more energy than I have right now.

"I also mentioned talking," he points out, not glancing over at me. "Alfred's cooking something simple, and the couches are more comfortable than the table. I assume you don't mind if we're a little less formal?"

"We're both barefoot, and damp," I counter. "We're already pretty much not formal."

That gets me a thin smirk, and a quick sideways glance that follows the line of my side, but he doesn't answer. He leads the way back to the front of the manor, to the side room that he originally ambushed me in. Without waiting, or consulting, he crosses to one of the two couches facing each other over a low coffee table. He flashes me a small smile and then slides onto it in what has to be one of the most graceful things I've ever seen. I'm severely distracted by the way his back arches as he settles onto his stomach along the length of the couch, arms gathering a pillow beneath his head, but I manage to somewhat blindly get myself onto the other couch. One blue eye peers over at me, matched to half of a curled mouth, and I swear I _don't_ stare at the swell of his ass or the way his back curves.

I'm such a _liar_.

"Get comfortable," he nearly _purrs_ , and I swallow, thickly. His gaze flicks down to follow the movement of my throat, and I nearly do it again on automatic.

"No offense, but you make that _really_ hard." Nightingale's mouth curls a little wider, with another flash of white teeth, and then he turns his head to actually face me. I can still only really see the closer eye, but he's clearly actually paying full attention. Then again, I'd be totally crazy not to believe that he was paying me full attention all the time.

"Call it a talent," he deflects, watching me. I swear he's barely even blinking. Then he gives a sharp, short laugh as his eyes narrow a little bit. "We've slept together haven't we?"

I happen to be in the middle of trying to breathe, and the question freezes my chest for a second and makes me cough and choke. He looks more amused than anything else, except maybe interested. "Excuse me?" I ask, when I've got my breath back.

"In your world," he clarifies, pushing up on his arms a bit to adjust how he's lying. I don't know if the new angle — partially on his side, pillow pushed away and discarded to rest his head on his crossed arms, _obviously_ watching me and with his entire face visible — is better or worse for my distraction. "We've fucked, right?"

On one hand, there isn't the mesmerizing curve of his back to get caught in, and the glint of that one blue eye watching me. On the other hand, his entire face is visible and his lips are hard to look away from, and when I do manage to look away from those there's the long lines of his legs and the muscle of his closer arm on display. How does he manage to _do_ that? I don't know anyone else that can manage to make every casual stretch or position look like it's some kind of show. _I_ definitely can't.

"That's a scarily accurate guess," I point out, and he gives another laugh.

"I know the look."

I'm kind of stuck staring in awe and some measure of shock as he slowly pushes up and away from the crouch. His leg slips over the edge of the couch, quickly followed by the other one, and he straightens up to his feet. His gaze holds mine captive as he circles the coffee table, and I'm pretty sure I swallow again but I definitely don't move as he gets closer. It almost feels like some kind of slow doom as he slinks down onto the couch next to me, left hand bracing over my shoulder, and gracefully settles himself across my lap. There's a permanent smirk on his face, and his right hand rises and traces around the edge of the collar of my borrowed t-shirt, fingers warm and with just a hint of nail behind them. I stay _very_ still, ready to grab the speed force just in case this goes nasty — never trust an Owl, they can go from friendly to ripping your face off in about half a second, every _single_ one of them — and his smirk flickers a little wider.

His fingers slide up the side of my neck, along the curve of my ear, and then he gives a sharp smile and murmurs, "Interested in a repeat, Allen? You must be at least _halfway_ decent if I gave you a chance to begin with."

I am _really_ not sure whether I want to be leaning up into him or getting the hell away, but that's kind of a generally safe reaction to an Owl. _Especially_ Nightingale. "You were interested in what kind of tricks a speedster had," I manage to get out, stalling for a little bit of time to process the sharp turn of his attitude. I have no _idea_ what goes on in Nightingale's head, or what could take him from cool and teasing to blatant propositioning in about ten seconds. _No_ idea, and not knowing why an Owl is doing something is really, _really_ dangerous. Learned that lesson with Owlman, and with Red Hood, once.

Nightingale leans in, fingers tracing against the curve of my jaw as he presses up against me — _Fuck_ , he's just as solid as _Hal_ — and brushes his mouth up against my ear. "And…?"

He lets the question hang, and I take a second to pull my mind away from every thought of grabbing him by the waist, pinning him down and _fucking_ him — it doesn't really work, but I _try_ — and tilt my head back, looking up at the ceiling. Alright, yes, Nightingale is way more attractive than he has any right to be, and obviously he's either actually interested or he's being a teasing son of a bitch. Yes, it _is_ a little much to ask of me to restrain myself with him straddling my hips, his _mouth_ hovering above my ear, his _fingers_ tracing patterns down the side of my neck. I'm a _speedster_ , I make a _living_ off of acting by instinct, before I have the chance to think about it.

"I thought you enjoyed yourself. Never came back though; maybe you weren't interested after I was married?" Or maybe he was just busy. Owls always seem to be involved with one thing or another, and _especially_ recently. "Or just busy. Red Hood's been keeping all of you Owls pretty tight-lipped and non-social." They've pretty much closed ranks on us. I see Nightingale when he's leading the minor league, and I see Owlman when he shows up at the Crime Syndicate headquarters for debriefs, or fights, or meetings, but other than that — after the rumors about Nightingale getting stabbed, and then the _fact_ that Black Talon was ambushed and nearly killed — they pretty much stopped communicating with the rest of us. Red Hood, their lost Talon, has really been pushing them pretty hard.

"Not a name I recognize," he says dismissively, and I fight back a shudder at the flick of a tongue to the shell of my ear. "So, should I take the lack of answer as a 'yes,' Allen? No speedsters here, but if your version of me thought the tricks were worth exploring they probably are. I trust my own judgement."

 _There_. Alright, got it. That's why I'm not doing exactly what most of me _really_ wants to.

"You've known me for maybe three hours. I mean, you're both _gorgeous_ , but you're not the person I know, and you don't know me at all." He's still, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and clench my hands to not reach up and do exactly what I want to. "This is a little fast, even for me, and…" _Iris_ , and _Hal_. "I have a wife."

He pulls sharply away, but only far enough to be in front of me so he can catch my gaze. His eyes are narrowed, and the smirk has vanished to make way for a sharp smile that feels way more like a threat than it should. Or maybe, exactly as much as it should, considering what I know of my universe's version of Nightingale. Smiles _are_ threats with him.

"So what?" he asks bluntly, smile twisting wider for a second as his gaze flicks downwards. "You're clearly not straight."

The more logical part of me really wants to take him by the arms and push him away, but I am not quite that suicidal. Not with that smile on his face and how good of a position he's got me in. "No, bi, but that's not the point. I have a _wife_ , and I'm already— I've got someone else too." Hal is different, he's casual and fun and a challenge, but I don't want to go any farther than him. Iris deserves better than that. She deserves better than me at all, actually. I only slept with other people up until we were together, and then I _stopped_.

I won't break that streak, not even if it's in a different universe and with one of the hottest men I've ever seen in person.

Nightingale's smile flicks off for a second, and he looks genuinely angry, before it's back fast enough that I almost think I imagined it. I might believe that, if I wasn't used to reading Owlman's micro-expressions. "A wife that's married to someone else," he points out, "and even in your universe you're already cheating on her. What's your excuse to turn me down, Allen?"

Dangerous territory. Even I can see that.

"The person I'm already with is a different case." Hal's just casual, and he's steady, and he's something I need that she doesn't give me. It's not _like_ the way Nightingale makes it sound. "I don't know you, Nightingale, not this version of you. If _mine_ had come with the same offer? Maybe, but still probably not." I can see the muscle of the arm he's got braced over my shoulder flex, like he's clenching his hand down on the back of the couch, and I hook into the speed force and bring it up just below my skin. Just in case. "No offense meant, you _are_ seriously attractive, but it doesn't feel right to me."

Another of those tiny expressions of anger flicks across his face — but he doesn't move, so I don't grab for the speed force and shove him away before he can get a knife on me — and then he visibly eases out, hand letting go of the back of the couch as he pulls away. His eyes are blank shields, and I'm almost totally sure that the small smile twisting his mouth doesn't mean anything at all. Still, I think shut off might be better than that anger. He's probably less likely to come after me with a knife or something.

"Alright," he agrees, easily. He's climbing off me before I can answer, turning his back to circle back around the coffee table and to his couch. He faces me when he sits down, smile firmly fixed to his face and one long leg crossing over the other. I'm pretty sure that's defensive, and the way his arms spread to either side of the couch's back is forcibly casual, but I might be wrong. I know _some_ of what body language means, but most of it really isn't important for me.

There are a few moments of silence, where I try and catch my breath and stabilize out, and he watches me impassively. I might have made my decision, and he might have respected it, but having someone as attractive as Nightingale straddling my hips — with his _mouth_ against my ear; _Christ_ — still inspires some physical reactions that I've got very little control over. He's hot, and disturbing alternate world or not, that hasn't changed. He knows _just_ how to use what he looks like too, always has. You only have to watch him to know that; he distracts and teases and then slits the throat of anyone dumb enough to fall for it. That's a _lot_ of people.

"So, tell me about your world." His tone is cool and distant, but it's also steady and demanding. "You mentioned an organization called the Crime Syndicate, which sounded like what Bruce was trying to make before he was killed. Why don't you outline it for me?" It's not a question, and I know that, but I still pause for just a second to repress the last of my reactions to him before clearing my throat to answer.

Alright, this is fine. We can discuss what's different between my world and his, and maybe I can get him to officially sign on and dedicate himself to trying to fix it with me. It _does_ sound like his world is much less friendly to villains than mine is, and that we're not doing nearly as well here. Plus, Owlman is still alive in my world, so that has to be a serious motivation to help me. The Owls, as they tend to emphasize, are _family_.

I'm sure he'll help me.

* * *

I'm not sure what wakes me up for a couple of long seconds. I come awake blinking, still mostly beneath the blankets of the bed that Nightingale and the butler gave me for the night — or maybe longer, we hadn't quite come to a game plan yet when he excused himself for work — and knowing that something isn't quite right. There's nothing obvious, and nothing that immediately grabs my attention when I raise my head and peer around, but then it's very dark in the room, and I can't see much of anything.

I push myself up against the headboard, narrowing my eyes and trying to pick out anything in the very faint light. I don't catch the slightly lighter shadow until it's nearly on top of me, and even then my attention only snaps to it when the bed shifts with the addition of more weight to the side. I slip into the speed force, snapping out to the side so I can yank the chain of the lamp to the side of the bed before anything can happen that might theoretically be painful.

The light clicks on, and I focus on where the shadow was, on who's in the bed.

Nightingale meets my gaze, sitting on the edge with one leg drawn up and sideways across the covers. He's shirtless, with a pair of what looks like silk sleeping pants on, and he looks flatly unamused by my caution. He glances past me, at the light, and then raises an eyebrow and meets my look again. He doesn't seem really inclined to speak, so I fill the silence for both of us.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" I ask, bluntly. His mouth tightens a touch, but he doesn't flash any of his smiles or twist his mouth in a smirk.

"Thought I'd see if you might reconsider," he says, mostly serious with just a hint of mocking. "That's _very_ bright, do you mind?"

"I kinda mind, yeah," I answer without hesitation. "I said _no_ , Nightingale. Look, I appreciate the hospitality, but I don't owe you anything and I'm not going to pay for what you already gave. Last I knew, rape wasn't your thing." It's not like he could actually force me into anything, not since he doesn't have any kind of experience fighting a speedster, but I've _never_ known Nightingale to press an advance like this. If people aren't interested, or aren't _eager_ , he goes after someone else. It's not like there's a shortage of people who want to sleep with him.

"It's not," he says, snapping it at me, and I can almost _see_ something in his eyes that looks like a struggle. He looks away from me, back across the room, and then his head dips and he makes a noise that almost sounds like a sigh. "Alright, look. Just, be quiet and listen for a minute. Tell me no after that and I'll go, won't even bring it up again. Deal?"

 _What?_ What is he even talking about? He looks uncomfortable, and it's _obvious_ which is strange because I've never seen Nightingale uncomfortable. Not _ever_. When he gets even mildly out of sorts people tend to start getting bloody, or he disappears into a room with one of his more regular fucks. This is _wrong_ on so many levels.

"Deal," I say, before I actually consider it.

He doesn't look back at me, but one of his shoulders lifts in what I think is acknowledgement. He's silent for a long few moments — I viciously repress the urge to fidget, or to speed across the room and grab the shirt I discarded on the ground — and then, finally, glances briefly at me. Even the brief look is enough for me to see the _pain_ in his eyes, and that stiffens me a little bit.

"When Bruce died, I took over the mantle. I had to. Without an Owlman this whole thing would have fallen apart, and I just— It had to be done. I told the world that _I_ was the one who'd died, not him, and I took over everything that he had set up. The suit, his business, _everything_. That's the way it had to be to make sure no one took advantage of the weakness." He shakes his head, and his mouth twists in a sharp smile aimed at the floor. "No one knows who I am, _no one_. Apart from Alfred, no one's seen my face in _years_. I haven't—" He cuts off sharply, then shakes his head and a little more deliberately looks away from me, like he's making sure that I can't see pretty much any of his face from the angle.

"You have no _idea_ , Allen. Outside of that damn suit I don't exist to anyone apart from Alfred, and then you look at me for ten _seconds_ and you just _knew_. You have no idea how good it felt to be _seen_ again." Both of his hands raise and he ducks his head into them, a sharp laugh escaping his throat that sounds a little unhinged, a little _broken_. I swallow, thickly, staring at the curve of his back and his shoulders and seeing the _scars_ , not the skin. " _God_ , I gave up everything the day he died and I didn't even _think_ about it. I didn't consider—"

His hands lower, head tilting back, and I can see his shoulders tremble for a moment, see the strain in his jaw and the side of his neck. "Look, I'm not asking you for a promise, Allen." His voice comes out flat, and he finally turns his head back and looks at me. He's still obviously in pain, and there's a vulnerability to him that unnerves me, but in front of it is the tatters of a guarded expression that says he's _trying_ to hide at least some of it. "Honestly," he admits, utterly still where he's sitting, "I don't even care if it's sex or not. I don't _care_ if it's me you want. Put me on my knees and pretend I'm someone else, or just— Just let me stay and sleep here. I haven't even been _touched_ by someone else in years and I can't—"

His gaze lowers away from mine, and this time the tremble is a noticeable shudder as his eyes squeeze shut. " _Please_ ," he whispers, and it feels like a blow to my solar plexus.

 _Jesus_.

I move, reaching out and touching the side of his face, running my fingertips across the ridge of his cheekbone. His eyes flick open, watching me with an expression halfway between desperation and resignation, and I might be a murderer and a crime lord but _fuck_. Telling the world you're dead, not daring to show your face for _years_ , not daring to interact with _anyone_ outside of a metal suit of armor, just in case? That sounds like _torture_ , especially for someone like Nightingale. He's _always_ been the center of attention and the social charmer of the group; what could it _possibly_ be like to give all that up and isolate himself to this extent?

"Come here," I demand, lowering my hand to his arm and wrapping my fingers around his muscle, tugging him towards me. He hesitates for a second, but then follows the pull of my hand and shifts all the way onto the bed, sliding closer to me. He won't quite meet my eyes, but I ignore it and drag him right up next to me.

He goes _very_ stiff when I pull him into an embrace, sliding both of my arms around his back and pulling him up against me, but only for a moment. Then he makes a sound that sounds halfway strangled and all but melts into my touch, his head falling in against my shoulder and his hands rising to touch my sides and then sweep up my back. I hold him a little tighter, and then slide my left hand up his back and neck, lightly curling it into his hair as I turn my head into him and close my eyes.

I forget how _young_ Nightingale is.

He isn't part of our generation, he's the next one. Early twenties, if I remember the articles I read about him. It's not a _huge_ gap in age, and it's not like he doesn't have the experience to make up for it, but he's still got most of his life ahead of him. I didn't even _think_ about how young he is, and how much responsibility this universe threw on his shoulders. Add onto that the fact that Nightingale — at least in my universe — always seemed to thrive off of people's attention, and _this_ , this thing where he's all but clinging to me, makes way too much sense.

He's not my friend, and I'm not stupid enough to call our relationship anything but a one-time casual fuck between acquaintances, but he's an _ally_. I'm not heartless, whatever other people might say about me, and he's _obviously_ in a kind of pain that I can't even comprehend the depth of.

"I'm not going to fuck you," I tell him, into his hair, "I was serious about that." He tenses up for a moment, and I nudge his head with the side of my nose and lightly scratch at his scalp with my fingers. It's enough to get him to relax a little bit, but not all the way. "In my universe you're so _social_ with the secondary Crime Syndicate team. How can you _stand_ being this alone?"

He shudders, and then gives a small, strained laugh. "I have to," he answers plainly, against my shoulder. "I'm _barely_ holding onto Gotham. If they learned that the real Owlman is dead I would have lost it all. I still will."

I stroke my hand up his back. "Why tell me any of this? If I'd been lying—"

"You're clearly from a different universe," he points out, hands still against my back and slowly loosening. More of an idle touch, less of a desperate cling. "If we fix whatever happened, none of this will matter anyway, and if we don't I'll just have to kill you. I—" He cuts off, and then his hands tighten again and he asks, softly, "In your world, is my family alive? Any of them?"

"All of them," I reassure him, "and more I don't think you've ever met." It might not be a _good_ thing that Red Hood is alive, but he _is_ , and that's the important part.

"Tell me about them?" His request is quiet, muffled by my skin, but I manage to understand it.

"Just the ones you don't know? 'Cause you're going to have to tell me who you know before I can do that." Obviously he knows Owlman, and there was a Talon costume down in the cave that I don't _think_ was his. Besides, he responds to the name 'Nightingale,' so he had to have at least gotten far enough to break off from being Talon to do that instead. Which means there was at least one other Talon, right? If Nightingale is alone, that means that Talon died, just like in my version of our world. Maybe this one never came back to life?

Nightingale gives a small movement that I think is a shake of his head, his hands sliding down my back to rest against either side of my waist. "All of it. Tell me whatever you know about _any_ of them."

"Alright, I can do that. Come on, move with me." I shift backwards, slowly disconnecting and then reaching down to pull the sheets to the side. He takes the hint, still avoiding my eyes as he follows my silent prompt and slides in beside me beneath the covers. I lean over, clicking the light back off, and then settle in next to him.

I'm not going to lie and say that the feeling of him slotting himself up against me — one thigh sliding between my legs, his arm hooking over my waist, and his head ducking down beneath my chin — doesn't make me pause and breath sharply for a second, but I swallow it away and carefully gather him close. Nightingale might be attractive, and a dream — or sometimes a nightmare — to be able to touch, but he's in _so_ much pain that I really can't bring myself to even consider changing my mind. Not with him like this. He doesn't want _me_ , he just wants to be touched. Period.

Thinking of taking advantage of that unsettles me, and feels uncomfortably close to a kind of rape. If he was a little less desperate, if I didn't think that he would have approached _anyone_ in the same situation, maybe. But not like this.

I can feel him breathing against my collarbone, and I know it's just because he's a few inches shorter than me, and because he's so badly hurt, but he feels small. He feels vulnerable.

I press a soft kiss to the top of his head, closing my eyes against the darkness, and carefully pull him a little closer. "So, let's start with Owlman."


	3. Chapter 3

Welcome! So, this chapter is nothing important, really. I mean, it's a lot of talk and a lot of thinking, but uh, yeah, there's nothing really plot-important here. Sorry? XD Enjoy anyway!

 **Warnings** this chapter for: mentions of cheating, discussion of BDSM, and graphic sexual fantasies.

* * *

I come awake slowly. Warm, comfortable, and in seriously no rush to actually devote myself to consciousness. Not with the heat of sun across my back, and an equally warm body pressed up against my chest, my nose buried down against the back of his neck. There are fingers interlaced with mine, and I shift and squeeze them briefly, pressing a small kiss to the skin in front of my mouth as I move up against the back of the body lined up with mine.

I make a drawn out noise of appreciation at the muscle, and the returning squeeze to my fingers. "Hal," I murmur.

A voice that is distinctly _not_ Hal's responds, "Not exactly."

I jerk a little bit, snapping my eyes open. The man I'm curled around doesn't react to me being startled, and it takes me about a second and a half to recognize the black hair and the scarred back, and then another second to calm the lightning-fueled burst of adrenaline in my system. Right. Nightingale. He turns his head, looking back over his shoulder with a curl to his mouth that feels soft and amused.

"Nightingale," I say, belatedly, as he looks at me. "Did I—?"

"Fall asleep? Yeah, eventually. In the middle of a sentence too." He shifts, and I suck in a sharp breath at the slide of his skin against mine, and the movement of his ass where I'm pressed up against it. My reaction draws a small smirk from him, and he relaxes back into the bed, eyes shutting. "You'd make a good dad, you know that?"

"Not something I _ever_ wanted to hear from someone I slept with," I answer, and he gives a small laugh.

"You didn't sleep with me, remember? You made that distinction pretty clear." He doesn't sound accusing, and I stare down at the curve of his neck and down to his waist for a moment before I yank my gaze away and back up to safer territories. Like his neck, and his shoulder, and even _that_ kind of makes me think of things I shouldn't. "You were right," he says quietly, and I pull my focus back to him, and not just his skin.

"What?" I've got no _idea_ what he's talking about, or what I'm right about, or maybe even if that was just some kind of mocking joke. "I was right?" I would not put it above an Owl, especially Nightingale, to tell me I'm right and then totally go back on it just to be mean.

He smirks, flicking his eyes open to glance briefly up at me. "You sound like that's a surprise," he teases, his teeth showing for just a second.

I swallow at the sight of them — I remember what they feel like against my skin, and it's _so_ different than Hal's ever were — and then drag my gaze up to his already closed again eyes. "Yeah, I'm not used to Owls telling me I'm _right_ , normally I'm getting snapped at for doing my own thing." Or, recently, because Owlman is being a complete _ass_ about what he expects Hal to do, no matter how badly Lantern is hurt, and I don't stand for it. I mean, Jesus, he wouldn't expect any of the rest of us to fight with a broken arm. Why the hell did he expect Hal to do it?

I'm pretty sure they had some kind of fight behind doors. It's the only thing that makes sense to me for why the Owl is pushing Hal so hard.

Nightingale gives a soft laugh, and it's probably the softest one I've ever heard out of him, _especially_ one as totally devoid of threat as this one sounds. He doesn't even open his eyes, or move. "Well, you _are_ right this time. We might be the same person at the core, but I'm not your Nightingale. There's no way I can be, not with how different our lives have been. So, I guess you _don't_ know what I'm like, Allen."

I stare at the side of his face for a second, and then, before I can think about my words, I spit out, "I can't even predict the Nightingale I _do_ know, I don't know how the hell I'd do it with you."

He laughs again, and then he's rolling towards me and he's _way_ too close. I start to pull away, but _somehow_ his leg is wound over my thigh, and his hand is tight around my upper arm, and his mouth is a sliver of air away from mine. All I can see is the bright blue of his eyes, all I can feel is the heat of his skin against mine, the strong press of his leg where it's hooked over mine, the _touch_ of his fingers, the slight brush of air as he exhales long, slow, _deep_. I take in a _much_ less steady breath, and out of the corner of my vision I can see him give a slow smile, tightening his grip on me just a _little_. I comfort myself with knowing that if I really want to escape, I can. This Nightingale doesn't know how to fight a speedster.

"You know," he murmurs, and oh _god_ the words make his lips brush mine for just a fraction of a second, "my offer still stands."

It takes me longer than it should to connect his words back to anything in my mind that can make sense of them, and I stay _very_ still and try not to pay too much attention to the way his hand is squeezing in _tiny_ little patterns, _distracting_ patterns. _God_ , Nightingale is way too good at this, and I know it's purposeful that the _only_ place he's not pressed in against me is my crotch, which is a few inches away from his. That _has_ to be on purpose, it's just something for me to focus on and—

"Offer?" I manage to get out, considering how quickly I can either shove him away or get out from under him. My breath catches sharply when his leg slides a little higher, up my thigh to my hip, and I catch the flick of his eyes downwards, the _hunger_ in them. The silk of the pants he's wearing slides against my skin in a way that's new and incredible, and I almost wish mine weren't just the normal cotton they feel like. The fabric slips and strokes and _slides_.

"To _taste_ ," he whispers, his tongue flicking out between his lips and touching mine, and I go just a little rigid. He gives a soft laugh, eyelids dropping so his eyes are just a little hooded. "Or _be_ tasted." I straight up _choke_ , my shoulders curving in as I try and get past _that_ mental image.

Nightingale never even _pretended_ that he was going to cater to me enough to actually suck me off, but oh _god_ the thought of it is gorgeous. I remember the way he used his teeth — okay, _ouch_ , but I'm sure he knows better — and his tongue, the way it _looked_ when he used them to pull his own gloves off. I remember the little, satisfied _hum_ he gave, and the way he drew his fingers into his own mouth for just a moment, tongue looping out and around black gloves so quickly that if I were anyone else it might have just been a tease, but I got to see _all_ of it. Every second, every micro-expression, every single shift of muscle and vibration of his throat as he made that _sound_.

I might be with Hal, and Iris, but I have had dreams and _many_ fantasies that featured Nightingale's head dipped down between my legs. The curve of his mouth around my cock, the _sight_ of my hand threaded through his hair, his hands on my thighs. It would be _gorgeous_ , I know it. But Nightingale is self-centered, he's all about _his_ pleasure and his control, and maybe he let me fuck him but I wasn't stupid enough to think that he was actually giving me any power over him. Or… _My_ Nightingale is like that. I don't know this one.

"You don't know me," I barely get out, trying not to move because if I _move_ I'm going to slide his skin against mine, or he's going to flex the thigh hooked around my hip and keep me where I am, or I'm going to shift that tiny fraction forward and he'll be kissing me and— I don't think there's any coming back from that.

His hand loosens on my arm — though his leg doesn't, and he doesn't move away — and then his fingers tap against my skin. The smile has faded, and so has the _hunger_ that was in his expression, but he's still watching me with total focus. I swallow, trying not to look down at the fingers on my arm, because if I see that I'm going to see the way his leg is curled up over my hip, and I don't think I can come back from that either.

"Right again, Allen," he says finally, with a hint of teasing, "but I know enough _about_ you. I know that you slept next to me all night and didn't put a knife in my back. I know that when you got your powers back the _first_ thing you did was catch me before I hit the ground. I know the way you've been looking at me since then. I know you're not a sadistic bastard, or a cruel one, and I know that _somehow_ , even though you've told me who and what you are to the world, you didn't take advantage of the fact that I would have done _anything_ to be touched last night. You could have done anything you wanted, Allen, and you _didn't_. What else could I need to know about you?"

"I don't—" _Jesus_ it's hard to think with his mouth that close to mine. I thought I knew what desire felt like, but not even Hal has ever managed to wind me this high this fast. Of course, Hal isn't a ridiculously gorgeous, Owlman-trained, deadly as _hell_ man whose entire trademark has always been what he looks like, and how he uses that fact. Nightingale's body is a weapon in the truest sense of the word, and everything he does reinforces that in my mind. "This isn't some weird kind of payment thing is it?" I ask, without really considering my words at all, again.

He gives the tiniest shake of his head I think I've ever seen, his hands squeezing down on my arm again as his mouth curls in a smile. "I don't owe you a damn thing, Allen, and even if I did I'd never pay it off like this. Who I chose to sleep with is _my_ choice, and _nothing_ guilts or forces me into it. I'm not the mess I was last night, but the fact I was a mess doesn't mean that I don't want what I offered, Allen."

"So, this isn't even a tiny bit motivated by you being touch-starved?"

"The two things aren't mutually exclusive," he almost _purrs_ , and then he's pulling back except he's still hooked around my hip and it drags me with him. I react, bracing my hand on the bed above his shoulder as he imbalances and pulls me — _fuck_ — on top of him. He's flat on his back, and somehow his hand is gone from my arm and looped around the back of my neck, nails just _barely_ grazing, but his leg is still hooked around my hip. He pulls me down — _leg_ strength; not what I thought Nightingale had — and oh _god_ I'm pressed up against him _everywhere_ but his mouth, and that's giving me a _wicked_ smirk.

"I don't _know_ you," I stress, and my voice is way more strained than I want it to be.

"Do you _have_ to know me to enjoy a good _fuck_ , Allen?" God, he rolls that word like he's tasting it on his tongue, like it's sin and sugar and alcohol all at once. "Isn't it pointless to even think about consequences? If we fix the world, no one but you will even remember this happened." He pulls me down, and I could pull away, I _could_ , but it's barely a second before my mouth is pressed against his, and he makes the most incredible, satisfied, _purr_ of sound. "You _know_ the kind of memories they'll be," he breathes between us, teeth nipping at my lower lip, and my restraint cracks so fast I swear it should have been audible.

Lightning _surges_ under my skin as I lean down into him, obeying the press of his thigh and the hand on the back of my neck. He makes another of those noises as I fall into the kiss, rocking up against him and shuddering at the feeling of his skin against mine. Then suddenly his other hand is on me, dragging up the side of my ribs and scratching just hard enough to make me give a wanting noise into his mouth. Then it's dipping down, and I have time for a startled gasp before his fingers are irresistibly slipping past the waistband of my sleeping pants and wrapping around me.

" _Jesus_ ," I get out, pushing forward into his hand, and he gives another of those satisfied purrs. He _has_ to know what that sound does to me.

"Not bad," he praises, fingers exploring and stroking all at once, and I don't know how he _does_ that. "Anything I should know about," his fingers tighten, twist, drag, and I give a choked moan, " _fucking_ a super-speeder?"

"Speedster," I grind out, clenching my hand in the sheet and trying to figure out what the _hell_ to do with my other hand. Do I touch him, keep it in the sheets? Play it safe, or take this as permission to touch him and actually enjoy myself like I _really_ want to? Nightingale doesn't play _nice_ , and if you do something he doesn't like it's going to _hurt_.

He pauses, fingers not moving but still wrapped around me, and I _barely_ keep myself from bucking forward into the grip. "Speedster?"

Oh, _oh_ , right. "Not," I groan, tightening my hand in the sheets and still distracted by what I might be risking if I touch him, "super-speeder. They call us _speedsters_."

He gives another of those laughs, this one a little sharper edged, a little less soft and a little more _hungry_ , and his free leg rises against my thigh for a moment before curling around my leg. It's arousing as _hell_ , the grip of his leg is _strong_ , but a distant part of my head also knows that it's a _very_ effective pin as well. Multi-tasking Owls, wonderful; how the _hell_ do they do that?

" _Speedster_ , hm?" And how the _hell_ does he manage to make that title sound like that much _sin?_ That is not fair in any way, isn't this Nightingale out of practice at seduction? Hasn't he not fucked someone in years? How can he just click this back on and play me this _expertly?_ What kind of sense does this make? "There's a question. Are you fast in a bed too, _speedster?_ "

Oh, that _always_ comes up. I am _so_ unbelievably glad that I made peace with the idea that I can't have the stamina of other people, and got it traded in for a quarter of the recovery time. Otherwise, every _single_ fuck with a new person would have been mocking and embarrassment. Until I make them shout my name, anyway.

"Yes," I answer. "Recover faster too; I _know_ how to satisfy."

I can _feel_ his mouth quirk into a smile, and then he pulls his hand away from me — I _don't_ buck after it, no matter how much I want to — and nips at my lower lip, stroking that hand up the center of my torso, fingers dipping into the ridges of my muscle as it goes past. It slides around my upper rib cage, hooking around my back and pulling me down as he arches and grinds up against me. Only the press of his mouth to mine stops me from shouting, but I still make a high-pitched noise into the graze of his teeth.

With his legs wrapped around me, holding me down, I can't pull back, and the grind is _strong_. I probably wouldn't pull away even if I could, but not having the choice is… It's… _God_ , it's kind of intoxicating. I am _not_ used to having choices taken from me like this. Even Nightingale, _my_ Nightingale, pretended that I had a choice of what I was going to do. He was rough, and skilled, and he demanded what he wanted and _took_ it, but he let me stay physically on top and didn't restrain me like this. Yeah, it's maybe one of the hotter restraints I've ever been in—

No, _fuck_ that, that's a lie. The hottest restraints I've been in are Hal's constructs, and Nightingale's legs might be solid and attractive and _arousing_ , but Hal's constructs outclass them in every way. There's nothing like knowing that it's Hal's focus and his _concentration_ on me that's letting him hold me down, and that if I just tease him, draw him into a fuck or break his concentration, I can shatter them like glass. Except when he's already satisfied, still recovering, and he keeps me busy with his constructs. _Fucks_ me with them. _God_.

A shudders drags its way down my spine, and Nightingale pulls back just a touch with a laugh. "That wasn't _me_ ," he says, amused and teasing all at once. "What were _those_ thoughts, speedster?"

"Memories," I correct, and my voice is just a little _ragged_. I _really_ didn't need fantasies of Hal's constructs, and the memories of what he's done with them, in my head right now. Not with Nightingale below me.

Oh _fuck_. I _really_ didn't need to think about the two of them together, or of the _three_ of us. No, no, _no_. Not going to go there, I don't even need to _think_ about that. It's insane, I don't think Nightingale and Hal would play well anyway; Hal's too aggressive and Nightingale doesn't take that kind of behavior without putting people in their place. And _fuck_ I didn't need to think about the idea of Nightingale taking Hal down and making him kneel, making him _obey_ , because Nightingale could, I'm _sure_ of it. I might have topped Nightingale, but I could see hints in him that said he could _more_ than play dominant if he wanted to. With the right mood, or the right _motivation._

"Yeah?" And then Nightingale is twisting his weight, pressing and pulling and I'm on my back just like that, his one leg still circled around mine and the other beneath me, _forcing_ me to arch my back. His hand tightens on the back of my neck as I startle, his mouth curving in a wicked, _dangerous_ smirk as his other hand braces beside my head. "Why don't you tell me about it?" he purrs, and oh, _there's_ the bit of Nightingale that could completely and totally be dominant.

It would be a really blatant lie if I tried to say the idea of swapping roles with Nightingale isn't… Arousing is not intense enough to describe the feeling. Hal and I are more even than anything else, but somehow I don't think I'd get that option with Nightingale.

"That an order?" I ask, maybe a bit breathlessly.

He pulls at my neck, dragging it into an arch, and I reach up and grab at his left shoulder as his mouth secures onto a spot just below my left ear. He only bites down for a second, hard enough to sting but not to really _hurt_ , before he raises away and — _fuck_ — his tongue flicks around the shell of my ear.

"I don't remember giving you permission to _touch_ , speedster," he hisses.

"I don't remember _asking_ for permission," I counter, closing my eyes for a second to try and catch my breath. This is pretty safe, but just in case I need to escape I have to have the breath to do it. I can run in pretty much any condition, but getting out of this half a pin Nightingale has me in might be a little trickier. Getting away from _Nightingale_ might be a little trickier.

A small laugh, another flick of his tongue, and he leans further down into me. I can feel the hard press of his erection through the thin fabric of both our sets of sleeping pants, for just a moment, and then he's pulling back enough to hover over me. His mouth is in another smirk, and I flex my fingers on his shoulder, curl the other hand in the sheets so I don't do something stupid and probably immediately painful.

"How about you tell me what those memories are, and I let you touch me how I _say_ you can?" It barely even feels like a question.

"Or what?" is out of my mouth before I consider the issues with _challenging_ Nightingale, and I've got time to see the wicked flash of a grin before he's moving.

My reflexes kick in, the speed force flaring to life under my skin, and I'm _still_ too slow to stop him getting his hands around my wrists. They're still loose, I could pull away, but maybe… I can see how this plays out, right? I can _always_ escape, I don't need to do it right this second.

I let the speed force go, and Nightingale's hands clench around my wrists and _yank_ them up, _slamming_ them to the bed above my head. I swallow, and there's this expression on his face that looks satisfied, and anticipatory, and _knowing_. His hands flex around my wrists, he leans his weight down into them, and he twists the leg beneath me to force my back a little higher in its arch.

"You could have stopped me," he says, tilting his head and watching me like suddenly I _really_ have his interest.

"Still could," I manage, and he _smiles_.

"If you wanted to." He crosses my wrists, swapping his grip to just one hand braced with his weight behind it, and lowers his other hand to touch the side of my face and then graze down along the front of my throat. I can't help swallowing again.

"What's your point?"

Nightingale laughs, and I tilt my head back and gasp at another grind of his hips. Before I can blink his free hand is clasped around the front of my throat, and I stiffen for a sharp moment before I realize there's no strength in the grip. Firm enough to hold, and I can _feel_ his fingers pressed in against my skin, but they're not tight enough to actually stop me from breathing normally. He's watching me, studying my reaction, and it feels completely automatic to swallow for a third time under that look. I can _feel_ his hand contract for just a second, feel my Adam's apple press forward against his hand, and I can't control the shallow moan that drags its way out of my throat at the sensation.

Nightingale looks _very_ pleased, and he leans down to kiss me again. It feels like a reward, and when his tongue flicks against my lips I open my mouth without thinking about it. His tongue dips into my mouth for a moment, as he holds me still by the grip on my throat, and then he's pulling away with another small laugh.

"Your Nightingale never saw this, did he?" His hands flex, and god help me I lean into the touch and not away from it like I should. "I can't imagine a version of me that would let a chance like this pass by, so you _must_ have been in a much more dominant mood."

I _knew_ I liked the feeling of being restrained, I've had all _kinds_ of experiments with Hal that proved that to me, but I didn't think it could be just anyone. Not that Nightingale is 'anyone,' and not that this situation is _remotely_ normal, but I kind of thought that if I was going to let someone hold me down, it would have to be someone I actually somewhat trusted. I mean, I don't think Nightingale's going to really hurt me, and if he did I could almost definitely escape at any time, but I didn't expect this kind of a reaction to his _hand_ on my throat.

"I don't remember telling you what we did," I point out, twisting my wrists against his hold to test it. It might just be a single hand, but with his weight behind it and his practice it's actually pretty solid. It would take a fairly strong yank to get out of it.

Nightingale's mouth flicks a little higher into that smirk. "You didn't have to. People look at me differently depending on if I've fucked them, or they've fucked me." He leans down and catches my mouth for a second before pulling away just far enough that I can't reach him without pressing up into the hand on my throat. " _You_ look at me like someone who had me once," he murmurs, hand flexing just a _little_ tighter on my throat, "and _really_ wants to again."

My brain short circuits, _again_ , and my breath catches against the pressure of his hand, the flex of his fingers around my wrists, the _slight_ brush of his lips to mine. "You're that familiar with the looks?" I nearly gasp, clenching my hands to try and restrain myself and get just a _little_ bit of my mind back.

"Not exactly," Nightingale deflects, "but I know how to read people. I'm really good at reading when people _want_ me, and _why_ they do. Kind of important to know, when someone stares at me, if they want to fuck, fight, or just a little bit of both." I watch his eyes flick down, linger on my mouth for a moment, and then he meets my gaze — I don't know if I could find the words to say anything at the moment, no matter what it was — and gives a slow roll of his hips into mine that's so teasingly, frustratingly _good_ that it's not _fair_.

"So, what do you think of that deal, _speedster?_ You tell me what made you _shake_ like that, and I'll let you touch me where I choose. If not, I guess I can just figure out what they were on my own." His hand clenches down on my throat for a second — _just_ long enough for the speed force to snap to the surface of my skin, for adrenaline to spike and for me to tense in preparation for a fight — before he loosens it again, brushes his mouth across my jaw, and then purrs in my ear, "I'm getting the feeling I'm already on the right track."

I clench my teeth, pulling just a little bit against the hand holding my wrists down, and he shifts a fraction more weight onto them to keep me still. His blue eyes are slightly lidded, hungry, amused, and _intense_ , and they keep me still more than either of his hands or even his legs. I swallow, hold his gaze, and come to a _sharp_ realization.

I don't want to share my memories of Hal. Not with Nightingale, not with _anybody_. I don't want to share the way his constructs feel, or the sting of his mouth because he _knows_ I'll heal, or the _heat_ in his eyes when he looks at me. I _really_ don't want to share the things I let him do that are overwhelming and _amazing_ , and leave me exhausted and more or less at his mercy. Then there's the touch of his skin, and the way he kisses, and the sounds he makes when my fingers are in him, the way his _hands_ clench when he tries not to buck and writhe underneath my touch…

Yeah, not sharing. Hal is _mine_ , those reactions and memories are _mine_ , and I'm not sharing them with anybody. Not even Nightingale.

"I don't think I'm that attached to the idea of touching you," I get out, and his teeth graze over my skin as he laughs.

Then he's pulling back and loosening his grip on my throat, trailing his fingers down my skin and onto my chest. "Then we have a few things to arrange, Allen." The smirk is still on his face, but his tone is a little more serious than it was, not nearly as teasing.

"Like what?"

The shoulder of his free right hand rolls in a shrug, head tilting as the smirk flicks into a smile for a fraction of a second. Not like his threatening ones, but something nonchalant and maybe even a little withdrawn. I only get in a second of studying — expressions and body language _so_ isn't my thing — and it's not enough for me to figure out what he's thinking, or exactly what those emotions _are_ , before they're smoothed back into a smirk.

"Well, no one's been in my bed but me for a long time, so I'm not real stocked up. I've got the lube, but no condoms." I stiffen just a little bit, and he studies me, equally still where he's perched above me. "I'm clean; weekly tests so that's a _fact_. If you feel like you need them, you'll have to make the run. I can make it _fun_ for you, make it some kind of game, but you don't want to wait the time it'll take me to get them, and I'm not asking Alfred." He leans backwards, carefully disentangling his legs from me so he's just straddling my hips, and releases my wrists so he can sit back. "It's your call. I'm fine either way."

I pull my hands down, pushing up on my elbows a little bit and drawing my legs up. It makes me feel a bit better — because _jesus_ , that was a hell of a thing to bring up — to be in a better position, studying Nightingale where he's sitting over me, watching me equally as intently. "You're fine with it? But, that's a _hell_ of a risk. You've got no _idea_ what I may or may not have."

Nightingale shakes his head and gives a small laugh. "Alternate universe, remember? And I did a little research on who you are here. You're a _cop_ in this universe, Allen. You're in the background of a few articles, mentioned as an attending forensic scientist, but you've got no fame at all. There's _nothing_ about you out there except government records, Allen. No marriage, no scandals, absolutely nothing. You're quiet, hardworking, you stay out of the spotlight and I really _doubt_ you're dumb enough to make yourself a target for bullying by being openly gay, or bi, in the middle of a precinct. No matter how different this universe is from yours. That means you're _careful_ about what you do, if you do anything at all."

His head tilts as I stare at him, and he gives another small laugh. "I'm an _Owl_ , Allen. I do my homework, and I _know_ how to read someone's personality from the articles and information available about them. I'm not worried that my universe's version of you might have some kind of disease, especially not looking the way you do. You're healthy, I'm sure enough to risk the remaining percent."

That's so… No _condom?_ I've never done that with _anyone_. Not Iris, or Hal, or anyone else I've ever slept with over the years. Iris and I aren't ready for kids, if we ever even will be — Wally's practically our kid anyway, and he was hard enough to raise — and Hal is just casual. I'd never cross that kind of a boundary with him, and it's hard to ever really be safe like that. We fight _so_ much, and the right kind of exposure to blood doesn't happen much, we're all more _careful_ than that, but it _does_ happen. We all get tested — yeah, it's Owlman's enforced decision, but he's right — pretty regularly, and nothing's come up _yet_ , but it doesn't pay to be risky. I'm a _speedster_ , but I'm still sure about this, and this is _sex_ , not a battlefield.

Nightingale's fingers trace across my chest, and then he gives a wicked smirk and I _know_ , before he even opens his mouth, that I'm fucked in so many more ways than literally. "Besides, _think_ about it, speedster. This isn't your universe, and when we fix time and it reverts to your world, all of this will be erased like it never happened. There _are_ no consequences to this, Allen, not for you. Any risk is mine, and I'll take it."

He's right, and it _does_ make sense, but there's still a part of me that's not so sure. It's a hell of a thing to ask, or offer, and it's the kind of _trust_ that I wouldn't let just about anybody have from me. I don't think I can—

Nightingale's hand braces against my shoulder and he _shoves_ me flat on my back, that smirk still twisting his mouth as he leans down. His fingers dig into the muscle of my shoulder, his other hand is suddenly at my _throat_ again, and his teeth are at my ear. I go rigid, automatically snapping my arms up and wrapping my right hand around the wrist of the hand he has on my neck, gripping his shoulder with the other. Then he _laughs_ , low, dark, sinful, and _right_ into my ear, and I can't help the way I suck in a sharp breath as I arch just a little bit.

"I was thinking of tying your hands to the headboard," Nightingale whispers in my ear like a _promise_ , and I thought I was rigid before but I was wrong. I _have_ to be bruising him where my fingers are digging in, but his grip doesn't falter. "Put you on your knees and wrap my hand in your hair, make you arch and _shout_ for me as I fuck you. Maybe if you're good I won't make you come from nothing but the feeling of me inside you, _maybe_ I'll reach my hand down around you and help you along a little. If you ask _nicely_."

Not _fair_. "Nightingale, I do—"

His hand tightens on my throat, cutting me off, and his thighs tighten in against my hips and sides as his tongue traces around the edge of my ear. I might choke for a second at the feeling. "You said you've got shorter recovery," he's back to that _purr_ , oh _god_. "I wonder how many times I could make you come, _speedster?_ I wonder how many I could _fuck_ you through?"

"I— _God_ , it doesn't work like that. I'm not _instant_ , you can't—"

Nightingale _laughs_ , leans back just enough that he can meet my eyes with a smirk that's dangerous and hot and how do I even _think_ around this man? "Oh, _Allen_. Do you have any _idea_ the kind of control I have over my own body?" His fingers flex and shift upwards to force my jaw up, the other hand letting go of my shoulder to trace down my chest in swirling patterns with a little bit of nail. My grip doesn't even seem to make him have to _try_ to move. "I can last as _long_ as I want to, speedster. I can last until you're exhausted, and shaking, and all that's holding you up is the restraints around your wrists and the hands I've got on your hips."

A sound leaves my throat that's some unholy mixture of a whine and a moan, at just the _thought_. God, can he _really?_ Could he really tie me down and just fuck me through a few orgasms? That… _Jesus_ , I don't even know what to think of that. It's _hot_ , and it makes a dark, dangerous part of me arch and _keen_ at the idea, but _can_ he?

Nightingale claims my mouth, teeth grazing and nipping, tongue teasing in tiny licks until I open my mouth for _more_. _Then_ he pushes inside, giving a pleased hum of sound as his tongue strokes and dances around mine in ways I didn't know were even _possible_. I jerk and gasp into the kiss as the hand on my chest finds a nipple, twisting just a _little_ too hard, and I can feel him grin. I let go of his shoulder, clutching at his upper arm instead — and Nightingale might be shorter than me, and _younger_ , but his arms are more well-defined than mine and feel like solid _marble_ — as he turns his fingers to twist the other one too. That forces a small shudder down my spine, and he gives another of his approving noises.

The hand dips a little lower, nails teasing my abdomen and the dip of my belly button, before he strokes back up the center of my chest and pulls away a little bit. I try and follow — kissing him is like some kind of _drug_ — but he presses me firmly back down and holds me there.

"Or," he starts, as I drag my eyes open, "maybe I'll pull out some of my toys. I wouldn't have to hold back, and when I'm finished with you the _first_ time I can just push something inside of you and watch you squirm, or just fuck you with my fingers until I want another round. _Or_ ," his expression gets hungry and _dangerous_ , and it should get me up and running — _especially_ since his hand is still wrapped around my throat — but I just _don't_ , "I could tie you down a little more firmly than just your hands once I'm done with you, leave you open and spread so I can watch you clench for _something_. I'd give it to you, of course, something big enough to satisfy and make you _moan_ for me."

God I can barely _breathe_. His hand isn't tight enough to stop me but his _words_ , the _look_ in his eyes…

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he says softly, nearly a whisper. "You'd _love_ being held down and used for my pleasure, however I wanted to do it. You wouldn't beg," his smirk turns to a smile for a second, "and I wouldn't ask you to, but I'd bet you're _vocal_." His head tilts a bit to one side, eyes narrowing down at me, and I _shudder_. "No one's done this to you before." He almost says it like it's just something meant for himself, and then his hand loosens around my throat and he raises his free hand to snap his fingers. I jump, sharply, and the hand on my throat eases and slides to the side, fingers stroking up my jaw.

"Paying attention to me, _fully?_ " he asks, and I realize the smirk has faded away from his mouth. It's not tight, or unhappy, but it's serious. I nod, not quite trusting my voice, and he taps the side of my jaw and shakes his head. "No, give me verbal answers."

"I'm paying attention." It doesn't come out nearly as rough or shaky as I expected it to, but I'm still obviously not steady. I slowly release my holds on him, and wince just a little at the red imprints left behind from my grip.

"I don't play like this with people who don't want it," he tells me bluntly, fingers steady at my jaw and back at my shoulder, still and only a little bit distracting. He's completely ignoring the marks that I'm _sure_ are going to bruise, like he doesn't even notice they're there. "You didn't look surprised by your reaction, I assumed you knew something about playing this way. _Do_ you?"

I swallow, watch him for a second, and then ask, "What way?"

His mouth curls in a small smirk, as he shakes his head and gives a small laugh. "Yeah, that's a no. BDSM, Allen. I can _tell_ you like being restrained, you like the feeling of my hand at your throat, you like the idea of being tied down and used by me. Do you have _any_ experience with any of that, or is it just the thoughts that you like? No judgment, either way." He _looks_ serious about that, and his hands are holding still, he's not doing anything more than watching me.

I work my jaw, think about it for a second — think about what I want to _tell_ him — and then give a slow nod. "Some."

"Tell me," Nightingale demands. "I don't care if you keep names to yourself, but tell me what you've had experience with."

Good. He can imagine what he wants, but I _still_ don't like the idea of sharing my memories of Hal with him. Not even vague ones. "Restraints," I start, considering. "Behind my back, mostly. Large," I have to pause for a second to consider what the _hell_ to call Hal's constructs, "toys. Other than that it's just rough sex. I don't know what your standard is, but usually one or both of us ends up bleeding."

Not as much anymore. Hal and I have… settled. Not every fuck has to be a fight as well, and not every grip or every kiss has to hurt. It hasn't been that way since his ribs were broken, and he made me _scream_ with his constructs. That was… _God_ , that was one of the most intense things I've ever felt. He's never pushed me that hard since that, and it's still been more than satisfying but sometimes I consider asking him to do that to me again. I haven't yet, because asking him would be another of those invisible lines that we haven't crossed yet. I could have _demanded_ it, but I never got around to it and that's still not…

That's too intense and too — my mind says _vulnerable_ , but I shut it down — demanding a thing to demand, especially since he has to already have gotten off once to be really able to concentrate that hard. Otherwise, as we discovered while playing with Hal's constructs, _I'm_ a little too distracting for him. That was kind of a fun thing to discover. Hal can't even sit across the bed and fuck me with his constructs, just the way I _look_ and _sound_ is too distracting for him to keep up his constructs.

But, sometimes, I really _want_ him to fuck me that intensely again, just to _feel_ it. The way it felt, the way it pressed and moved and the feeling of him at my back, his hand in my _hair_.

I shudder, _hard_ , and Nightingale's mouth flicks into a smirk.

"It's _that_ , isn't it? Whatever that memory is, _that's_ what you want. Maybe not from me, but _that's_ why you know you like this." His hand traces down my throat, and his gaze follows it for a second before returning to my eyes. "I want you to pick a safeword, Allen. Something you wouldn't normally say that you can use to call an _instant_ halt to everything. Understand me?"

"Why?" I ask, staring up at him and trying to ignore the way his hand has stilled at the center of my chest, over my sternum.

Nightingale's eyes heat, and his smirk turns _wicked_. "Whether you decide you need condoms or not, Allen, I'm going to _fuck_ you, and play with you, and do whatever I want to with _every_ inch of your skin." I swallow. "Pick your word. If I push _too_ hard, or do something you don't like, call it. I'll stop, I'll make sure you're alright, and we'll talk about exactly what I did to make sure I don't do it again. Do you understand now?"

The idea, maybe, but… "Isn't that what 'stop' is for?" I point out, narrowing my eyes. "Why would you need some other word?"

He gives a very small shake of his head. "Because maybe I push you into begging, and maybe you don't know what you're saying, or how it's being said. Or maybe you say 'don't stop' but all I hear is the ' _stop_.' If there's a separate word, one that would _never_ get said during sex, it's obvious, and you'll _know_ you're saying it specifically to stop things. It's practicalities, Allen; trust that I know my interests." His shoulders roll in a shrug — the way his muscle shifts underneath his skin is _distracting_ , capital D — and curls his mouth in that smirk. "First, decide whether you're going to go get condoms. Then, pick your word. Once that's done, _then_ I'm going to play with you and see how loud I can make you _scream_."

Another shudder at the memory, the look in his eyes is _knowing_ , and then I meet his gaze with challenge. "I've only ever screamed for someone _once_."

"And that's what makes you _shake_ ," he purrs _instantly_. "Whatever they did to you, you _loved_ it but it pushed you _so_ far past anything normal, or even _rough_. Someone _took_ you in the _best_ sense of the word, and you _loved_ it. You don't have to tell me that for me to see it, Allen. It's in the way you press into it when I hold you down, but you don't _fight_. It's in the way you let me push you on your back and get you at a disadvantage, even though you _know_ at least some of what I'm capable of doing to people who are at my mercy. The way you let me put my _hand_ around your throat, and you _arched_ and wanted _more_."

I don't think I'm breathing, _again_ , and his lips part as he laughs.

"And _that_ ," he says, leaning some of his weight down into my shoulder. "The way you freeze up and can't _think_ for how much you want what I'm telling you. I _know_ what I'm looking for, Allen, and you show _all_ of it." He leans down, brushing his lips over mine for _way_ too short a moment, and then he's pulling away and swinging his left leg up and over my hips. "I'm going to go grab some of my toys." He's got a smirk curling his mouth, something wicked, dangerous, and his eyes blaze _intent_ as they rake down my chest. "Make your decisions, I'll be back either way."

He's moving before I can stop him, sliding off the bed and shooting me another smirk before he slips out of the room, softly closing the door behind him.

I raise both hands, shoving them through my hair and staring upwards at the ceiling as I try and get my breath back. It's _hard_ , and _I'm_ hard, and the urge to just slip my hand past the waistband of the pants and jerk off at just the memory of Nightingale's _purred_ words, his _promises_ , is intense. I didn't think that I could get that high off of not much more than _words_ , not to the point of having to struggle to _breathe_. Hal's made me breathless and desperate before, but not just by holding me down and _talking_ to me, and never before we've fucked once or twice already.

This isn't _better_ than Hal, that's not it, but Nightingale has so much more practice, and so much more _finesse_ , and he's just… _God_ , every word that comes out of his mouth tastes like _sin_ , like something forbidden but that's just so _good_ you have to want it anyway. But it's not just the way he says things, it's _what_ he says. He read all my reactions and turned them back on me just like that, like it was as easy to him as breathing. He sees _everything_ , whether I'm restraining it or not. How does he…?

 _Owls_ , man.

I swallow, trying to stay still because every slight movement of my hips rubs me against the inside of the pants I'm still wearing and it's killing what little brain Nightingale left me with. Not like that's much to being with. He pretty much neutered any ability for me to really _think_ before he left me, which… maybe that was the point?

Alright, not going to go there right now. Yeah, Nightingale probably _is_ manipulating me, but I really didn't need to be _told_ that. He's an _Owl_ , of course he's manipulating me in at least some way. He wants this, so he's doing everything he can to make sure that I want it too, _badly_ , while still technically leaving the choice in my hands. Not surprising, and definitely not something to count against him. Just because he might have played with and heightened my desire for him doesn't mean it wasn't there to start with. Besides, I have _decisions_ to make and I am _not_ going to waste the time I've got by myself thinking about how he's going to wrap me around his fingers when he gets back.

Or how I'm going to wrap around his fingers while they're inside me because I also know that Nightingale is _talented_ , and _skilled_ , and even when I fucked him I could see that he knew _exactly_ what he was doing. He might have let me finger him open — vibrating fingers, he wasn't going to pass that up — but I also knew by how he reacted it wasn't normal for him. At the time I understood; it was a power thing. It's vulnerable to let someone else fuck you open, and _powerful_ to do it yourself and make them watch. Now I _really_ know that.

 _Anyway_ , condoms.

I really don't want to get up, go find my suit wherever the hell Nightingale left it, and run to wherever the closest place is in Gotham that sells condoms. I mean, I'd just steal them, but I'd have to _find_ somewhere first. It might be super-speed to them, but I do still have to actually run the distance and _I_ feel all that time normally. The lightning is kind of a high, so I don't mind the time as much as I could, not even _close_ , but it's still time. Plus, _finding_ things is a pain in the ass. Finding things in _Gotham_ is even worse, this place has no design sense, I swear.

So, what about without condoms? Well, why _don't_ I do that? Or more accurately, why _haven't_ I?

The safety risk, firstly. Disease or pregnancy. Nightingale's obviously male, so barring something weird and magical — and I'm not going there because it's _not happening_ — he's kind of immune to having kids. Disease is a little more tricky. He said he was clean, and I trust that because I know that _my_ Owlman enforces tests on the rests of us. Not weekly, like Nightingale said, but I'd bet that Owlman would be _much_ more intense about his own family's health than the health of his allies. So, what's the risk for me?

He's clean, and even if somehow in this world I'm _not_ , and I've got something, what danger would that be to _me?_ Nothing, I've already got it. Nightingale's taking the risk, like he said.

If something _does_ go wrong, then what? If we fix time — and I might not like the idea of time traveling, but to get rid of _this_ hell, I just might do it — then none of this will have happened anyway. If we don't, if I'm _stuck_ here, what's the risk? For me, _nothing_. For Nightingale, maybe this version of me has a disease and he gets stuck with it, but he's already pointed out how unlikely that is. I can definitely trust that he knows what the hell he's doing when he reads people's files and creates a personality of them, that's kind of an Owl _trademark_. Nightingale might not be Owlman, not the way I know him, and he might not be the same kind of genius, but he's still _smart_ , and he's well trained. He's not going to make a mistake like that, not even if he is still touch starved.

The two aren't mutually exclusive, right?

So, I'll do it, that's settled. I'll let him fuck me without condoms, since what little risk there is probably won't matter, and none of it's to me. I can do that. It might freak me out just a little, but I think that's just because I'm so conditioned to use one, always, no matter what. It doesn't _really_ matter right now, not in this case, so there's no reason for it to unnerve me. I can deal with it.

Then, the _rest_ of what Nightingale wants.

I swallow, shudder for a second, and stifle a gasp as my cock _throbs_. _Okay_ , so that's a definite yes, I really do want everything he promised to do. Mostly, I think the idea of getting tied to the headboard and fucked through a few orgasms sounds _amazing_ , even if that's all he does. I will also totally admit, now that the two thoughts are connected in my head, that the fact he's going to come inside me after all of it's done is kind of a _dirty_ thrill of an idea. I could probably fantasize about this whole thing for _days_ , honestly. Maybe even weeks, if I stretched it out or my imagination really got into it. Or — I have to swallow again, clench my hands in my hair not to reach down and palm myself — if I added thoughts of Hal into the mix.

 _Jesus_ , anyway, I have to _pick_. He wants a word from me, something I can use to stop the whole thing if it gets out of hand — the fact he thinks I might _need_ one is another dark, lingering curl of desire at the base of my spine — and that I wouldn't normally say during sex. Something I can remember then, no matter what, something with some kind of meaning would probably be easiest. Something that I—

Iris.

If I'm going to call something to a stop, no _matter_ what, it's always going to be because of her. Not this, I'm not going to tell Nightingale to stop fucking me because I'm thinking of what _Iris_ would say about me letting a man so much younger have me, but because if there's one thing that can bring me to a halt with a _word_ , it's Iris. I would _always_ stop for her, no matter how fast I was going or where I needed to be. _Always_.

So she has to be my word. That's the best way to do this, and I could never forget her name, not even if I forgot my own.

Alright, decided. Now I just have to wait for Nightingale to get back, and hold myself back so I _don't_ reach down and jerk off before he gets back. I don't think he'd appreciate that — okay, so maybe the thought of his displeasure, and whatever _toys_ he's bringing back might not be a totally bad image in my head — and I know I can't hide it from him. Sure, I could jerk off, strip off the pants, and get rid of any evidence, but I'm sure he'd still know. Mostly, because unless he takes forever I'm not going to be able to get hard again, and that's a _sure_ tell. After all, sudden limpness is kind of a big hint. Even I'd get that one.

So I'm just going to lie here, keep my hands safely in my hair, and try not to think about anything too exciting or too arousing. Yeah, totally _useless_ try there. With what's in my head, what he promised, the thoughts of _Hal_ , I'll be lucky if I even get a few minutes without some movie playing in my head.

Like Hal kneeling at Nightingale's feet, hazy and so hard it must be _hurting_ him, with Nightingale's fingers raising his chin as he tells my partner, " _Please me, and_ _ **maybe**_ _I let you come sometime tonight."_ And Hal shudders, glares for a second, but follows the guide of Nightingale's fingers into his crotch anyway.

Or Nightingale lying partially on top of me while I'm on my stomach, my hands bound and legs spread at his command while his fingers slide in me. Slow, unhurried, as he _purrs_ into my ear all the things he's going to do to me when he's done. Trembling, _whimpering_ , but he told me to stay still so I will.

Or Nightingale pushing me down onto my chest, one hand at the back of my neck as he leans to the side and strokes his other hand down my back. Another pair of hands brushing along my hips, dragging them high and it's _Hal_ sinking inside me, hot and hard and _perfect_.

Oh _jesus_.

I clench my jaw to keep the moan from escaping me, but I can't help the small arch of my back or the way my hips buck upwards, just once. I clench my hands to fists, tilting my head back and breathing hard, but evenly. That's _never_ going to happen, come _on,_ brain. Hal wouldn't play nicely with Nightingale, and even if they did— _God_. Alright, so Hal _has_ said that he doesn't care who else I fuck — as long as it's not the royal bastard Owlman, anyway — and I guess technically that could mean bringing in other people as well. He's never said anything _against_ threesomes, I guess. Never anything for them either, but we don't talk about other people in the bed we share, so I guess it hasn't come up.

Neither of us have ever stopped to talk about how hot someone else is, or how badly we might want to fuck them. The time between us is just for the two of us, and even if we brought someone else in it would still be for us. Both images are _hot_ , but I think I'd prefer seeing Hal fuck Nightingale rather than the other way around. I _know_ Hal isn't always dominant, but he doesn't just give that away, and neither do I. Nightingale is _hot_ , he's _gorgeous_ , but the right kind of person? I don't know, no one's ever shared the experience of getting fucked by Nightingale.

It's obvious when he's slept with someone — I think everyone in the Crime Syndicate knows what Nightingale's marks look like by now — but everyone assumes that he played the bottom, not that any of us are stupid enough to think that makes him less dangerous. Except, maybe, for Ultraman. The rest of us all remember that Nightingale has been dangerous and deadly for years, was trained by _Owlman_ , and still has the weight of that name behind him. The Owl-family is _not_ to be fucked with, not if you like your life and your sanity. They're not cruel, _exactly_ , but they know how to _ruin_ someone much more efficiently than the rest of us. Even someone with powers, or maybe _especially_.

So, Nightingale _must_ top sometimes, but maybe no one shares that? Then again, people don't exactly share that they _slept_ with Nightingale either. He might leave marks to make it obvious he had them, but no one's allowed to do the same to him from what I remember. No one _brags_ that they got to fuck Nightingale, they just take it, enjoy it, and keep silent. I didn't really think about the fact that even though Nightingale is by far the most promiscuous of the Crime Syndicate, no one actually _talks_ about sleeping with him. Every once in awhile someone just shows up with the obvious patterns of his marks, and everyone knows.

What if… What if Nightingale _isn't_ the whore that people call him? I mean, people show up maybe once or twice a month, and I have sex with Hal and Iris _way_ more than that. Maybe people just think that he sleeps with so many people, so much, because _sex_ is such a large part of his image. Maybe we see him as a whore because he makes it so obvious, because he flaunts and teases and is generally an attractive bastard even when he's not purposely distracting someone, but maybe he's _not_. Maybe he sleeps with someone once or twice a month, when he feels like it, and the rest of the time all he's doing is showing a front?

What if the only reason we see him as a whore is because he chooses to be seen that way?

Alright, thoughts _way_ too deep for right now, and I'm in the wrong _universe_ to find this out. This Nightingale hasn't been under other criminal's supervision for years, and he was never part of the Crime Syndicate. For all I know, back when he was Talon, Nightingale didn't act at all the same way. Maybe he was more like the Talons that _I_ know; a dark shadow with glinting blades and enough skill to kill a target before it ever even knew you were there. Or, provide the distraction for Owlman to do the same thing. Maybe Nightingale _chose_ to use what he looks like when he graduated from his last role, and purposely emphasized all of his good qualities to distract. _Could_ he have done that?

I kind of wish I'd ever really met Nightingale back when he was Talon, so I'd know any of this. I can't imagine Nightingale as the surly, sneering Talon that took the role recently, or the silent shadow of a Talon that _Black_ Talon was — half the time I didn't even _notice_ that kid until he was already behind me or halfway into a room — but I don't think he sold himself the way he does now. There's a whole lot of me that isn't comfortable with the idea of Nightingale being the same sex symbol as Talon that he is now. He was a _kid_ ; there's no way that's how it was, right?

No, I can see Nightingale still having his smiles, and his laughter, and his _enjoyment_ of the job, but I don't think he sold sex the way he does now. I think he grew into that as he got older, and realized that it was _effective_. Because _damn_ is it effective. Even _I_ occasionally get distracted by his looks and the way he _moves_ , even though I know it's all a mask and glamour to hide what he's really doing.

Which is manipulating me.

 _Jesus_ , I told myself I wasn't going to do this. Just last night I said I wouldn't. I said I owed Iris better than cheating on her with anybody who offered, that she _deserved_ better. _Nightingale isn't 'anybody'_ , says a dangerous part of my mind, not that it isn't also right. Damnit.

I could turn him away. Nightingale respects a no; he wouldn't be happy but he wouldn't press it, at least physically. All I'd have to say is that 'no,' it'd be as simple as that. It would be so _simple_.

There's a big difference between simple and easy, though.

It's not like it was a promise, not really. I mean, it was in my head, I said I couldn't, but I didn't really think it all the way through. Nightingale was right; if this all goes according to plan then this whole universe just vanishes again. Iris isn't married to me in this universe, she's with some other guy, and no one would ever remember it happened but me. Doesn't that kinda free me from the blame? If it, technically, never happened, does it count?

Besides, I'm supposed to be a villain, right? What's the point of wearing the title if I don't get to do messed up things every once in awhile? This is _so_ much safer than anything else I could be doing. Technically it's even safer than sleeping with Hal. No consequences in this world, not when we're going to fix the timeline and revert everything back to how it should be.

But, _Iris_.

She deserves better. Okay, more importantly, this is a serious trust thing I'm about to do. What Nightingale wants to do to me is this big thing that is going to pretty much short circuit every wire I've got in me, and that's… That's big, regardless of all of this argument in my head. It's _big_. When Hal pushed me that far I couldn't access the speedforce, and not being able to do that, _especially_ against a hand-to-hand combat specialist like Nightingale, strips me of all of my defenses. That's not a casual thing.

That's something that a stranger shouldn't get, and this Nightingale is a _stranger_. It's a hell of a thing to trust someone not to hurt you when you're that defenseless. I think I trust Hal not to, but Nightingale? Probably not.

So, where does that leave me?

If I don't trust — it's more complicated than that — Nightingale to get to do that, if I want to store all that desire away and save it for whenever I work up the courage to get Hal to do it instead… Then what? Nightingale will respect it if I refuse him, even if he tries to verbally manipulate me into doing it, however subtly. But he's not wrong in that this has pretty much zero risk to it for me, and that's a hell of a chance.

This is a different universe, this is a one in a million opportunity.

Also, there's the worse possibility. If I can't fix whatever this is, whatever happened — _if_ it's Reverse, that's the good option — then I'll be stuck in this universe. If I'm stuck here, then I'm going to need allies, and rejecting Nightingale might make him a little more questionable about helping me in the future. Owls can be passive aggressive bastards sometimes, and remember what they consider slights for a _long_ time. It's probably a good idea to go along with him.

Alright, that was a flat out play to try and disguise the fact I _want_ to do this, however screwed up and unfaithful it is, as something I have to do. I could at least own my own desires, especially since they're kinda messed up.

So, it comes down to a simple question. Is consequence-free sex with Nightingale worth whatever guilt might get stuck in my head because of it? I _am_ betraying Iris, even with all the extenuating circumstances, but it's not like I'm not already doing that with Hal. This is a one-time thing, in a different universe, and there's no way she could ever know unless I told her. He's _gorgeous_ , and he's skilled, and it'll be one hell of an encounter.

Yeah, it's worth it. Maybe the self of my future hates the one that made this decision, but right now it's worth it. Especially since…

Fuck, if the only way to fix this is time travel… I might be able to do it, but the chances I make it out alive are not that high. Time travel is _dangerous_. I learned all I needed to about it and never, ever did it. The possibility that I get absorbed into the speedforce is pretty likely, and if fixing the world means sacrificing myself, would I? I don't know.

That's one hell of a thing to ask, and I'm not a hero.

If I'm going to pretty much kill myself to fix the world, I might as well take every chance for fun before that, right? Nobody can fault me for having some fun before I _die_ , not anybody I give a shit about, anyway. This is not something Nightingale's just going to leave on the table forever, and if I die…

Yeah, it's worth it. No way I'm passing up something that's going to be so awesome when I might not even live to see my wife again. Or Hal. God, I hope Hal's alright in this universe.

There were those other Green Lanterns when I looked him up, three of them standing right next to him. What the hell was that? Hal's been fending off Oa's issues with Earth's massive collection of superpowers by himself for years. Owlman helps, sometimes, but that's mostly negotiation. Why would there be more than one Lantern on Earth?

The door opens, and I push myself to sitting as Nightingale slips back inside. He's got a wooden box under one arm, maybe three feet long and a foot wide, dark wood with a latch at one side. He's smirking, and it stays on his face as he closes the door, walks over, and sets the box aside on the bed. He's grace in motion as he climbs up, and I think that I should probably stop him from crawling up my frame and settling himself across my thighs, but that's a way easier thing to think than to do.

"So?" he asks, fingers trailing down my chest as he meets my gaze. His eyes are, jesus, _impossibly_ crystal blue. It's kind of breathtaking, like everything else about him. "Your decisions?"

I swallow — his gaze flicks down to follow the motion — and take in a deeper breath. "I can't do this."

The way his face shuts down, shields snapping into place as he stills, tells me that was the _wrong_ way to phrase that.

"Something change in the last seven minutes?" he asks sharply, mouth flashing a smile and his hand dropping away from me. His entire body coils and straightens so it screams danger instead of highlighting what he looks like, and my throat tightens for a second.

"Not what I meant," I manage, holding the speedforce underneath my skin and not letting it respond to the threat on my lap. "I can do _this_ — sex — but I can't do," I glance at the box, near the foot of the bed, "the rest of it. Don't trust you that much, and it's kind of an important thing to give to a stranger."

I can see him relax and ease back out of the coiled, ready to lunge, danger. "Alright," he comments, surprisingly easily and with a slight shrug. "I told you; I don't play that way with people who don't want it." He loosens, reaching forward and sliding one firm hand around the back of my neck. I shouldn't let him drag me up into a kiss, but I can't gather enough willpower to stop him either. Not with what he looks like, what he _feels_ like.

He presses closer, other hand stroking up the center of my chest. Then he gives a quiet laugh into my mouth and pulls back a little bit.

"If you're running for condoms, you should do it now." His hand tightens on the back of my neck, just a little. "I'm _still_ going to see how many orgasms I can fuck you through."

The speedforce spikes with my arousal, my control slipping and slowing my world. I know, to him, the sharp shudder just feels like a momentary vibration. He tenses for a fraction of a second in reaction, then eases, that _wicked_ smirk curving his mouth again.

"What's your choice?" he almost purrs, voice soft and smooth.

I have to swallow again to clear my throat enough to speak. "I'll take my chances."

He makes a sound of approval, and then the hand on my chest pushes me down against the support of my arms until my back hits the sheets. "Good."


End file.
